NVPD: The Long Goodbye
by HourglassDream
Summary: Vegas has always been a crown jewel, never losing its luster. Whether through atomic fire, wars fought over its destiny, or looking at it from the bottom of a Tennessee whiskey bottle, there's never been a doubt Vegas is beautiful. It's beautiful, even as it takes everything from you.
1. Who Always Wins?

**War. War never changes. When atomic fire consumed the earth, those who survived did so in great, underground vaults. When they opened, their inhabitants set out across ruins of the old world to build new societies, establish new villages, form new tribes. As decades passed, what had been the American southwest united beneath the flag of the New California Republic, dedicated to old world values, democracy and the rule of law.**

 **As the Republic grew, so did its needs. Scouts spread east, seeking territory and wealth, in the dry and merciless expanse of the Mojave Desert. They returned with tales of a city untouched by the warheads that had scorched the rest of the world and a great wall spanning the Colorado River. The NCR mobilized its army and set it east to occupy the Hoover Dam and restore it to working condition. But across the Colorado, another society had arisen under a different flag. A vast army of slaves, forged in the conquest of 86 tribes: Caesar's Legion. Four years have passed since the Republic held the Dam, just barely, against the Legion's onslaught. The Legion did not retreat. Across the River, they gathered strength. Campfires burned, training drums beat. Through it all, the New Vegas Strip has stayed open for business under the control of a mysterious overseer, Mr. House and his army of rehabilitated Tribals and police robots. Two armies prepared to spill a massive tribute of blood on the shifting Mojave sands for their visions to be made history. But neither dreams were to pass.**

 **A courier carrying a platinum chip, beneath the notice of the two great armies six weeks earlier, walked across the Hoover Dam to deliver a message from his employer to the bear and bull. Leave the Dam, leave Sin City, or perish. Mr. House's Securitron army took control of Hoover Dam and The Strip, pushing both the Legion and the exhausted NCR out of the pre-war jewel. Mr. House continued to run New Vegas his way, a despotic vision of pre-War glory. The city continued continued to be the sole place in the wasteland where fortunes were won and lost in the blink of an eye. The streets were orderly, efficient, cold. House's territory grew to become the largest and most prosperous city in post-war America, with over three million men and women coming from every stretch of land and walk of life to win the fortune they dreamed of. In such a city, control become more and more expensive to hold. Mr. House found even with his army of robots growing day by day, he could not have the control he once did over the larger city. Organized gangs and crime were stealing the vision of pre-war glory right out from under him. Crime was growing by leaps and bounds every year. The distant but always near autocrat called back his lieutenant from the waste to Vegas to deliver a message once more. There would be subordination, or there would be blood.**

 **Because war, war never changes.**

* * *

Charlie Sixer walked through the doors of the Lucky 38, like he had many times before. And like many times before, thick metal panels creaked into place over them, the four foot thick prison gate that protected the pristine house from the barbaric city. Charlie Sixer walked through the additional set of doors that lead him out of the concrete block and into the dimly lit carmine casino that hasn't seen a spinning roulette wheel or a game of poker in over two hundred years.

"Howdy Partner! Might I say you're looking fit as a fiddle?" An overly-polite model 2060-B securitron with the face of a cowboy chomping happily on a fag greeted him from across the marble stairs. Of course, this was Victor. The robot who dug him out of his grave. Perhaps not the same robot, Charlie mused, at any moment Victor could jump to or from any securitron Mr. House saw fit to send him to. He didn't know how many made-up computer personalities House kept around, but he did know that there was really no Victor. There never was. There was only him and House in the room, and the latter he could never really be sure of. He was alone, but smiled in spite of himself. He kicked his boots against the "Welcome to the Luxurious Lucky 38!" mat to shake some sand out and dragged himself over to the elevator.

"Really, Victor? Because everyone else I met today told me I looked like I was ran over by a train of Brahmin shit." He grinned at the cowboy robot's flickering amber screen.

"Sounds like a red rag to a bull if you ask me, I've seen you come through that door with two broken legs before. Recallin' those days, well, you seem positively peachy now." Victor elbowed Charlie softly in the ribs with his tube-arms after he finished processing his speech.

"Victor, don't ever mention red rags and bulls in the same sentence to me again, it puts a bad taste in my mouth." Charlie took his helmet off and rubbed his eyes. "Take me to the president's suite, will you?"

"Anything for you, partner! But the boss-man upstairs wants to see you tonight, and he don't like to be kept waitin'." Charlie stopped rubbing his eyes.

Huh? House wanted to see him? Did he hear that right?

"What-uh, what does he want to talk about?" He stared raptly at the robot. "Whoa, there, hold your horses. You know I'm not a rancher of that kind of cattle. I just keep the place tidy and safe while House keeps the place runnin'." Right, of course. It's not like Mr. House to ever just radio him orders. He might've been a courier, but he never liked having to walk all the way across the Mojave desert just to receive his next orders, usually with the objective being half-way across the Mojave desert again. But it'd been weeks since House gave the order to clean the streets of Vegas from the newly arrived mafias. If he wasn't doing it effectively, shouldn't he have been contacted a long time ago?

 ** _DING!_**

"So, partner, what'll it be? I wouldn't keep the boss man waitin', if I were you." Victor's tone, so usual of him, shifted slowly, almost imperceptibly, starting from a kindly country drawl into the kind of rattlesnake-like talk Charlie heard all too often before a man put another man in a shallow grave. For a moment he reached for his holster, intent on teaching Victor the place machines had in the hierarchy of men. He dug holes into the securitron's screen as best he could with his eyes, before swallowing his pride. If this was anyone else, no, any _thing_ else he could shoot it and leave without anyone making a fuss. But this was Mr. House's property, and an attack on Mr. House's property were dealt with swiftness, finality, and an army of robots, regardless of how high up the social ladder you were. The rewards of obeying House were immense, as were the punishments for not doing so. He would know, he was the closest thing to a friend the dictator of Vegas had.

Charlie stepped into the spacious elevator, mirrors adorned with gold depictions of forgotten gods and goddesses clad in simple robes and wielding tridents, scales, torches, and other tools.

"I'll go. But tell House I expect some shut-eye within the next hour."

Victor rolled into the elevator and pushed the button that sat above the one labeled 107 with his bulky crane-machine like claws.

"Likewise, friend, likewise."

The elevator groaned, and the long journey to the top began.

* * *

The man in uniform stared long at the computer screen. House never initiated the first word, preferring him to get the ball rolling. Perhaps it was some sense of pre-war politeness that he never understood, some bygone once-universal code of ethics he upheld that long ago stopped being common manners and started being saint-like treatment. Maybe he was like that with every man, never reacting unless someone or something else acts in a way he doesn't like. Or, it was possible, he was far too busy watching over the Mojave with ten thousand unblinking eyes. Perhaps even here, in the Lucky Thirty-Eight, his home, his tower of ivory, he was nothing but a particularly useful insect, below notice until you see it crawling at your feet. Whatever the reason, the computer screen never spoke until spoken to. It annoyed him, but he was more tired than annoyed.

"Well? Out with it, I haven't slept in over a day and I want to be looking at Californian girls in swimsuits within the hour."

He waited. Eventually he heard the soft familiar whirr of the speakers, meaning a response was soon to follow.

"Must you always be so crass? For all you knew I was just about to offer congratulations on a job well done, but I certainly won't reward _insolence_ in my own office. Keep it up, and I'll make sure you'll never find employment in the strip again." Mr. House retorted.

"Oh, if I could be so lucky, and you so kind. You'd never do either of those things. Why don't you tell me what it is you _really_ want, Robert? What's so important that you had to come in between me and my beauty sleep?"

"Oh, please. I've seen you operate for longer than that without any hindrance to your performance. Your excuses are a pleasant conversational formality, but they're not necessary in the slightest. What I want from you is this: after extensive calculation and widespread scouting from the H&H Tools Company, I've determined that trade with the residents of Arizona has finally become safe, and what's more than that, profitable. There's an enormous number of high-value products and locations I want to reclaim before the NCR can take the Robco label off my assets and steal it for themselves."

"So, what, you want me and my men to guard some caravans instead of Vegas, or something? The slums of New Vegas are barely preventing themselves from breaking up into raider bands as it is, taking any amount of security forces out of the city is asking to be bit in the ass." Charlie Six pulled out a cigarette and put it in his mouth, fiddling with the lighter but not getting anything. "God," he thought, "please don't let the city fall apart when I'm gone like last time."

"And that's precisely why I'm not. You will be scouting a path to a very specific place in north Arizona, leading a small band of engineers. Once there, the engineers' job will be repairing the antenna and radar arrays back to running condition. It's _your job_ to make sure they stick to the letter and spirit of the contract, to make sure they _do_ nothing else, _see_ nothing else, and _ask_ nothing else that doesn't pertain to the arrays. You will be both their manager, supervisor, and bodyguard for the duration of the mission. Of course, I'll need your consent before the contract is finalized. You'll receive twenty-four thousand caps, a quarter of it when you leave the lucky thirty-eight, and the rest upon return and proof you got the radar array working properly. What do you think?"

Six's crumpled fag dropped from his mouth. _Twenty-Four Thousand Caps._ That's enough to buy a car. Not one of the beat-up, barely working rusted pieces of shit, either. His head was swimming with questions. Nothing about this smelled right. There's something up House's sleeve, there always was. Always is. But Charlie Six's mind, old blade that it is, always thought of one thing first.

"I thought you said it was safe. Nobody offers that many caps for a safe job." He picked up his cigarette and lit it as he narrowed his eyes at the computer screen.

"No," House bemusedly agreed, "I said it was a safe avenue for trade. Human habitation is a completely different matter. It is an absolute _hellhole_ for people. Cazadors outnumber settlers along the route there, this is precisely the reason for your large sum and why you're taking it. Much further north or south, and the two armies of the west would be breaking down your neck instead of merely breathing on it. This is an opportunity that won't last long, so we need to act immediately on it and _pounce._ If you accept it, I'll have the team you're leading ready tomorrow morning on the southern outskirts of Vegas, where presumably those year-long Elvis look-a-like contestants will be shucking and jiving all day."

Charlie Six exhaled a gust of smoke. "You know, nobody else but you can get me to lead a bunch of eggheads through the Mojave desert on his word alone, right? I just want you to know that." He grinned sardonically. "I'll do it. But you haven't told me where it's at, yet. Is it just in the middle of the desert, or…" he waved his hands in a circle, drawing a trail of smoke.

"Oh, don't worry. Fortunately, you know the location very well. Even more fortunately, you're one of the few that know of it at all. And I'd like it to stay that way, it must remain a company secret if Vegas is to have any lasting competitive edge against the Californian Republic. Years before the war, it was known as Black Mesa. It was also underground, but the war changed many things. You know it by another name, I'm sure."

"For the few who made it out alive, they know it as The Big MT."

* * *

A yell echoed through the VIP suite of the Lucky Thirty-Eight.

"Victor, can you turn on the radio for me? I'd do it myself, but I'm using the bath." Charlie scrubbed behind his ears with the washrag like his mom always told him to do. Of course, she also said never to turn a hot bath down, but he only listened to her when he felt like it. He put the washrag back into the lukewarm soapy-water bucket he shared the tub with. He heard a faint "Sure partner, what station?" and yelled back again "Jesus Victor! Anything's fine, just turn the damn radio on!" He put his nose near his left armpit and sniffed, "Yeah, I guess it's about that time of week again." The courier surmised to himself. He washed the pits, too. It was more like trying to subdue his own arm with a wet rag than it was bathing, but he got it clean regardless.

"And we're back. This is Mr. New Vegas, and I feel something magical in the air tonight, and I'm _not just talking_ about the gamma radiation. We got some news for you coming right up."

He worked his way over his stomach and sides real quick, making sure to scrub the excess skin off. The last thing he wanted was an infection.

"The mysterious deaths of several prominent men in freeside, including a doctor, have led some to believe a serial killer… may be responsible. No suspects have been identified, but seniors have been advised to report any large groups of grandmothers brandishing kitchen utensils to the nearest authorities. Anyone with allergies is urged to stay away from bake sales. The pinyon nutmeg cookies… are to die for. And now, for some music."

The courier finished scrubbing in between his callused toes and got most of the sand out of his belly button. Which used to be inward, but a while after he took the dam it turned outward. He gained more muscle than he ever would've thought he needed as a courier. Then again, he pondered, he became a courier in the first place because he imagined it being calm, steady, safe work.

 _In the shadow of the valley_

He stood up, picking the bucket up with him, and dumped it over his backside.

 _I would like to settle down_

He scrubbed his back, thanking his mother for hooking up with his double-jointed father, before grabbing a towel and wiping off his face.

 _Wide open space_

 _Wind on my face_

Wrapping it around his waist, he walked over to the sink and opened the medicine cabinet, looking at all the glass bottles and vials in it.

 _A distant horizon_

 _The moon on the crest_

"Penicillin, Loxapine, Morphine, Droxidopa, Vazculep… Ah! Here it is." The courier poured a couple tablets from two bottles into the shotglass sitting on the right side of the sink.

 _In the shadow of the valley_

 _That I love best_

Uncorking a bottle of absinthe, he poured it into the shotglass on the left side of the sink.

 _You have always waited for me_

 _And you always will be there_

He drank the bottle on the right, shortly followed by the left.

 _Sage brush and pine_

 _Old friends of mine_

He took a box of abraxo cleaner out from under the sink cabinet, and poured it into the left shotglass. Pouring some more absinthe into it, he drank this, too, but did not swallow. Gargle, swish, spit.

 _A little bit further_

 _I will find my rest_

The courier walked into his luxurious bedroom and pulled a suit out of the gunmetal case laying by his bed. "Fighty time!" The voice of a slightly digitized young woman rang through the suite. "No, Bonnie, it's not fighty time. I just wanted to get you out of that box, we got a big day tomorrow, you and me." The naked courier admonished as he put on some boxers.

 _In the shadow of the valley_

 _That I love best_

"Awww. Will there be fighty time tomorrow?" The man chuckled hollowly. "Yes, Bonnie, I'm sure there'll be lots of fighty time. Get some rest, we have a busy few weeks ahead of us. Who knows, we might even stop by your home."

 _I have wandered many places_

 _But they're all the same to me_

"Really? You're not just saying that?" The courier cursed the think tank for making a combat suit with the ability to sound like a kicked puppy. "Yes, I promise. Now get some sleep. I want you in peak condition tomorrow, you hear? It's a long road home."

 _Nowhere I've found_

 _To settle down_

"I'll be good. I promise. You didn't forget to take your Haloperidol, did you?" The suit spoke to him as he put it on.

"Of course not. Goodnight, Bonnie."

"Goodnight, Owen."

 _A little bit further_

 _I'll find my rest_

 _In the shadow of the valley_

 _That I love best_

"In the shadow of the valley…"

"Shush, Bonnie."

 _That I love best_


	2. Twisted Nerve

**BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP**

Pain. If there was one word to describe everything he was, at this moment, it was pain. The air, a mix of toxins that spelled doom for men and women whose faces were known to all of America. The gas turned idols into monsters, dragged out everything that made them adored by their fellow man, and turned them into things so much less. And the gas burned his lungs like acid as he ran away from the things. It hurt. It hurt him like he didn't even know he could hurt. But waiting meant certain death. So he ran through the heavy sulfur fog up the gateway stairs.

 **BEEP BEEP BEEP** ** _BANG BANG BANG BANG_**

 **BANG**

He gripped his browning automatic rifle and raised it to his shoulder slowly, arms like molten lead, gripping the gun with new desperation, and exhaled, squeezing the trigger. He'd killed the green-eyed monster, four rounds of ammunition designed to kill men from over a thousand hundred meters away merely knocking it unconscious. Despite how many of those things he killed, he wasn't used to people-shaped objects not dying when their entrails were littering the walls. By reflex, he always stopped shooting at that point. But that didn't kill it, so he but another between the things eyes as it went down, putting a huge indent in the gas mask and making the back of its skull open up like a popped blister. He could hear fireworks in the distance. Fireworks, the singing of Vera Keyes, and horrible, gurgling, inhuman screaming. He wasn't sure he had enough ammunition to make it out alive. Three-Oh-Eight was heavy on your hips and hell on your arms.

 **BEEP BEEP BEEP**

No, stop that. Stop thinking. Move.

Jogging up the campanas stairs, he painstakingly kept the BAR sights in front of his eyes as he swept the area. He counted three pairs of green orbs on the marble awnings turn towards him, loping, twitching monsters wearing shredded brown jumpsuits and spread out from each other. He cursed under his breath and ran for the space underneath the columns as the screaming got louder, but not before putting several more rounds into the ghost on the right. He ducked and rolled behind a pillar, opening up several cuts and scabs on his knee but avoiding amputation by the spear that almost wholly embedded itself into the ceramic and concrete floor to his right. Leaning himself and the sixteen pound gun against the pillar, he crouched, aiming the BAR upwards, letting out a deafening staccato of lead into the wood and marble the ghost was hiding behind. Confident it was dead, or just hoping, he stood up and began jogging again, rifle dropped and hanging around his chest in a two-point sling. He ducked into one of the doors to what might've once been small apartments for rent below the awnings, and closed the door behind him. It was possibly the pinnacle of pre-war sophistication. A rosy silk and linen made bed, embroided carpet depicting kings and emperors lounging in a bathhouse, being fed grapes by servants, lovingly carved wooden nightstands, even the lamps were laden with cleverly forged bronze, showing all sorts of geometric shapes. It screamed luxury, even if it was small.

A shame he was going to destroy it all.

He emptied out a dresser of all it's silky smooth pajamas, and dragged it to the door, pushing it sideways and setting its weight against the entrance. He tore the sheets from the mattress and barricaded the door with it, before doing the same with the bedframe. He hurried into the room on the left, a kitchen, and emptied out the fridge, stuffing some pre-war junk with too much preservatives in it inside his burlap sack, along with a bottle of absinthe and some water. He pulled the fridge down with a heavy * **BUM*** and the crack of ceramic tiles, as loud as breaking glass. "Shit." He swore under his breath. Pulling it to the door with all his remaining strength, he pushed it back up. The door was completely covered. Not wasting a moment, he pulled out a knife from his belt and began cutting a long strip out of the bedsheets.

 **BAM. BAM. BAM.**

Fuck. He grabbed the bottle of absinthe, and unscrewed the cap off. He walked over to the mattress and poured some on it.

 **BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM**

The door was splintering. They smelled it. It pissed them off. He scavenged through his burlap sack, pulling out some turpentine, and an engraved lighter, trying to recreate in seconds what he preferred to do in minutes without shaking hands and acid-filled lungs. Emptying the bottle of turpentine, half in the bottle, some on the rag, and a lot on his hands, he stuffed and filled it. Going back into the kitchen, he turned the stove dials up to 9 without waiting for the burner to light. Putting his nose close to the burners, he was relieved when he smelled the distinctive scent of petroleum.

 ***CRASH***

Shit. He turned one of the radios on the counter on and wormed his way into one of the sink cabinets, guns, bullet casings, sierra madre tokens, knives, and other junk he carried on him clinking far too noisily for his liking. 'If I get out of here alive, I'm ditching all of this stuff.' He closed the door, and not a moment too soon.

 _Khhhh…shhhhh. Khhhh…shhhhh. Thunk… thunk… thunk…_

 _"I'm tickled pink, the moon is yellow, and I'm your fellooow, tonight (Do-do-do-"_

 **THUNK-FSSHHHH**

"Haah, hu, haah, hu, haah…"

The radio might have covered up the sound of his labored breathing. It definitely wasn't now, because he was certain it just got skewered by a saturnite alloy spear. He could tell because his already cramped personal space in the kitchen cabinet was now being shared with a rusted kitchen knife a couple inches from his face. The only reason a yell didn't escape his lips was because he was painfully struggling to breathe through the toxin-laced air to begin with. Holding his breath, agonizing as it was, he waited, hoping his frantic hearbeat wouldn't give his position away.

 _Khhhh…shhhhh. Khhhh…shhhhh._

He whimpered, a little bit. They knew he was here, he was almost certain. The plan was to activate the gas, leave the kitchen, and _then_ set the kitchen on fire. Was this really how he was going to die? Because of one missed step? That's… that's not fair. He was the man who killed Caesar. Caesar! Conqueror of eighty-six tribes! Emperor of Arizona! He was strong! Feared! He was-

 _Khhhhhh…shhhhhhh. Khhhhhh…shhhhhhh._

...He was alone. He was cornered. He was prey.

The courier did a few things simultaneously at that moment which he would forever account to sheer luck and extreme dehydration. Courier Six kicked the door open, lit the cocktail, dropped it, and ran like _hell_. The courier heard the too-familiar sound of spears missing his head by inches and penetrating the wall behind him. There were several ghosts in the living room. One of the masked freaks, holding a bear trap in his hands, lunged straight for him. He sidestepped by reflex, grabbed the BAR in the exact opposite way you were supposed to hold it, and swung the stock into its ribs as hard as he could. He heard a sickeningly loud crack as the ghost-thing's momentum carried it across the living room, another ghost-thing barely ducking out of the body's way. Three of the glowing-eyed mutants started rushing towards him, letting out horrible wails as they did so. He ran through the doorway, the door itself ripped to pieces by brutish force, and turned around, running backwards as fast he could while firing from the hip at the bottlenecked ghosts.

 **BANGBANGBANG** ** _clickclickclickclick_**

"Shit." His gun was dry. Without letting a moment go by he dropped the BAR to let it rest on it's sling as he turned around to sprint further north through a hole in the wall-

 **SHUNK**

He stopped. It was hard to see even a few feet in front of him inside the scarlet cloud, but the pain between his ribs and the too-close green orbs made it easy to guess what happened. It was getting even harder to breathe. His lungs were punctured. He shoved his hand into the cloth sack at his waist, fumbling around for the familiar cold metal pinecone- until an unseen ghost dislocated his arm from his elbow. " **GRAAAA-HAAA! Hurk, hurk, hurk, hurk-** " He coughed blood onto the ghost's expressionless mask as his last, pineapple shaped hope of a quick death flew away from his limp convulsing hand. The ghost, wearing a burlap hood, looked at him, looked through him, with so many mixed emotions. Hunger. Pain. Curiosity. These things weren't men. It looked like a man, but wasn't. These were the dead. He fell to his knees, the spear keeping him from falling further forwards. It was here, he realized with clarity clearer than the pain, clearer than the heavy lead his muscles became, clearer than his acid-filled lungs, clearer than the numerous cuts burning with the cloud over his limbs, more real than his morphine haze, the broken elbow, or the knife in his ribs, here he was to die. Not a peaceful death of old age, relaxing on a rocking chair under the Mojave sun like he hoped for. No, he was never going to be so lucky. He would be nailed to the walls, slowly dying of blood loss but not infection as the ghosts forced him to eat and breathe the cloud, as they picked and cut whichever piece of meat they fancied from his body that day. He would be eaten alive over… who knew how long. Weeks? Months? He was losing consciousness, and when he awoke he knew this was going to be the least painful moment in the rest of his life. He felt a ghost tussle his hair and another picking up his legs, laying him down onto the brick of the madre. He forced himself to cough some more blood onto the ground, trying to lose as much blood as he could before they took him. Several more ghosts with burlap hoods crowded around him in a circle. He coughed some more. His fingers were getting colder.

"What… do you… want… from me?" He spit red on one of their boots. "Huh? WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!" He burst into action, left hand going for his belt, right hand going for his boot. The ghosts were quicker, and took both from him, as another punched his neck and others held his wrists, starting a brand new sensation of pain as his dislocated elbow was scraped roughly across the ground. He couldn't breathe. Shit, he couldn't breathe. His throat was trying but he couldn't. "You… betrayed… us…" His own eyes, teary, blurred, and his vision fading, started becoming a greater detriment to his vision than the cloud. He tried to figure out which ghost spoke. Ghosts never did that. One to his left took off its mask. Half of its face was burned, the other bruised and cut like it decided to get into a boxing match with a deathclaw. It was angry. "No…" he whispered, almost to himself. "You're… you're supposed to be dead." A ghost to his right removed its mask as well, revealing the top of its skull blown open and a pair of sunglasses, stoically glaring at him. "Please," he begged, "No more. I can't take any more." Another ghost removed it's mask, but it had no face. Ashes came pouring out of where it's face should have been, along with a necklace. The ashes moved with a will of their own, crawling up his body and into his mouth. He was suffocating, and the ashes tasted like rubbing alcohol. Each ghost, one by one, removed it's mask. They all looked like corpses, but they died differently. One had the shape of a bear carved on it's forehead, it's eyes removed and covered with sutures. Another had no distinguishing features from anyone else, besides that it was missing ears and had a hint of facial hair. The courier felt his heart sink lower than lake mead. He cried.

"Please, no more. I was just following orders." The ghost in sunglasses started talking, "Orders? Weren't you the one who told me soldiers choose and slaves obey? Which one are you?"

"I… I... I never meant to hurt anyone. I just wanted to protect Vegas. That's it." The half-burned one spoke, "We took you into our home. We made you one of us, made you family. You murdered all of us, burned down our home. Burned down your home. Who did you protect? Can you name anyone alive who can thank you for saving them?"

The courier sobbed, the knife plunging deeper every time he breathed. He was cold as a corpse.

"Don't. Please, don't. I don't deserve to die like this. I don't wanna die. I don't wanna die." The one with no ears spoke. "Deserve? Boss, I opened my heart to you. Besides me, you were the only one who knows my sister ever walked this earth. I was an open book, boss, and you shot me in the heart. I tried my best to do what was right. I wasn't perfect, but I tried. Deserving had nothing to do with it. I don't ask too many questions, but what makes you deserve to live and not me, boss?"

"Please, a doctor, I need a doctor, please! I'm going to die!" The one with a bear tattoo spoke to him. "We all die someday, you know. If I had to prescribe anything to you, it'd be a bullet between the eyes. At least you get to die a free man. That's a better treatment than what I had."

"Just… just end it. Please." The sunglasses-wearing ghost reading a spear above his neck. "Alright. I did enough mercy killing in my life, I can do one more." The only ghost still wearing a mask put a hand on sunglasses' chest. "Whoa, whoa whoa, cool it, alright? This baby's mine." Sunglasses backed off, and the courier stopped moving, his eyes narrowing. He recognized that voice. It was muffled, but there was no mistaking it. "So the coward finally gets a bit of swing in him. Ain't that something. You know, I've met a lot of cold cats in my life," the masked ghost wagged his finger at him, "But you? You take the cake. I have _never_ met someone who stabbed more backsides than you. If you woulda stayed in that cozy dirt-mound I dug ya, a whole lot less people would've died." He chuckled at his own joke. "You just can't let go, can you? Most people that get shot in the head and wake up, y'know, they would've realized they made a bad career choice somewhere down the line. Maybe use the scar to pick up some lovely dames. Begin again. You? You kill everyone you meet so nobody can return the favor. You're one sick puppy." The bleeding man growled at him. "Fuck you, Benny. You fucking bastard. I won't take that kind of talk from a snake who kills men for poker chips." The ghost laughed, and took his mask off. "Aww. And here I thought the Halloween costume would've kept you guessing. Your mind has all kinds of cool digs, did you know that? Anyways, let's get down to brass tacks. I'm not here to play dress-up or turn you into wasteland smoothie like your friends here are." Benny squatted down, hands resting on his knees. "I got a message for you kid. This delivery run you're on? Those mentat-smarties you're escortin' to Arizona? After that, the house isn't going to need a courier anymore. My advice is to run. Run as far as your little legs will let you." Benny reached into his boot and pulled out a snub-nosed revolver. "Your luck is awful, kid. But you've made off pretty well with yourself so far. So, a little piece of advice for you, from one lying snake to another." Benny aimed the pistol between his eyes, and pulled the hammer.

"The game was rigged from the start."

 **BANG**

* * *

The courier's legs jumped in the air. "Welcome back, Owen. I missed you." The digitized voice of a relieved woman spoke to him. He felt sticky, and his hair was wet. Courier Six groaned, running his hand through his hair. "How much Med-X did I go through last night?" The suit responded back. "Oh, it wasn't _too_ bad. Last night you had: Four. Doses. Of morphine, with each dose being: Two. Milligrams." His muscles ached badly. "Can you give me some more?" The courier pleaded to God. Or the suit. Whichever heard and responded quicker. "Sorry, you programmed me not to give you morphine on request anymore." He pulled a pillow over his face and groaned. After a relaxing but aching minute of laying in bed, Bonnie talked to him. "This is a great way of avoiding bad guys, but you have a job today, remember? You're taking me to Big Mountain. Go get ready." The suit reminded him triumphantly. The courier lay a bit more, listening to Roger Miller bragging about being a king on the radio, before a small "Yeah, okay," escaped from his lips. So he walked to the bathroom, getting a couple of pills from the medicine cabinet and putting them into the shotglass on the right side of the sink, before pouring absinthe into the left…


	3. A Trip Through Town

_Trailer, for sale, or rent_

Owen undid the clasps keeping the information processor and ballistic plates onto his stealth suit, shedding them off like an old layer of skin. He took the LINCLOE combat webbing off, belt, suspenders, and all, laying it neatly on the not-so-neat bed. Remembering he wasn't naked, he started unzipping the sleek black coverall. He inhaled deeply, no longer constricted by all of his gear, before his face crinkled in disgust. _"Iron. I hate that smell."_ He laid the suit tenderly on his bed. There weren't many experimental cutting edge pre-war combat suits in pristine condition left, after all. He walked over to his dresser, and picked out a pair of white nylon briefs, putting them on, and ranger rolling a few other pairs of undies and socks.

He pulled out a pair of desert grid _Strichtarn_ pattern cotton _Jöhdpurs,_ a leftover from a war over 300 years ago when some now dead communist puppet nation made a coup d'état against some now dead desert nation, the pants meant to protect horseback riders and horse cart gunners from being spotted when on the move or staying still among mountains and deserts, yes, but mainly to disrupt and hide the outline of a man when looking at him with NVGs. That wasn't such a worry only a few short years ago, but an Independent New Vegas proved to be a very tantalizing prize for the NCR war machine, and almost every mind in their machine was trying to figure out how to plunder the city Him and House built from the blood and the sand. He put on the pants, and grabbed his LINCLOE utility belt, wrapping it through all the loopholes. He took some kneepads, taken off an old set of pre-war riot control armor, and covered them with some strichtarn grid cloth coverings he made, putting them unto his knees and fastening them snugly. Putting on his stealth suit boots, tucking the johdpurs into the boots, before tying his shoes, wrapping some light tan NCR-issue puttees around the boots, and putting a sheathed knife into his puttees, he tried thinking about what dangers he'd encounter on his way, and tried to figure out the best route to take.

 _Legion? Yes, but if we're fast they won't be able to catch up. NCR? Well, we made a treaty, but technically it's only an armistice. They'll definitely see me if I'm too indiscreet leaving Vegas, and then I'll have a bunch of rangers out for my ass until we cross the river._

But there were precautions made for this very thing. He wore the same ensemble that every other security officer that didn't have a TV for a face wore. As it turned out, House had few shares of Bill Borkler's National Textile Industries, which manufactured aramids and uniforms for the military, prisons, and the US civilian conservation corps before the bombs dropped. It was a tedious month of negotiating, but eventually the textile factory, conveniently located near the former NCRCF prison, was graciously handed over by the Californian Republic, after which the same prisoners were still running the factories, only it was now Vegas' Prisoners instead of the Republic's. He wore the same face-concealing helmet and identity-hiding uniform everyone else wore, but it raised morale among the force, because they got to wear the same thing as " _The Courier"_. He could feel bile rising in his throat, and swallowed it.

 _Cazadors. I'll need lots of ammo, and a rucksack of chems. But I need to carry water. Lots of it._

The Courier pondered over what caliber would lay down men and cazadors most reliably, and how much he could carry. He took the pistol bandolier out of the walnut drawer, brought over a green ammo can from the other side of his room, sitting at a straight ninety-degree angle in a cushioned red velvet seat, filling the cured leather bandolier up with as many .44 caliber bullets as it cared to fit. He idly wondered why pre-war people engraved roses and ladies on something that carried promises to make widows, before filling up his belt bandolier up with .44 as well, and set both of them on the desk. Looking at the mirror, he was reminded of a preacher he used to know. The years were not kind to his body. Oh, sure, he wasn't out of shape, but the human body was only meant to take so much abuse. He had met ghouls who looked better shirtless. Owen stood up and grabbed Bonnie, delicately placing her medical sensors, a tangle of metal spring-framed wires and suction cups, over his chest and arms, fastening the computer "psycho-plates" around his ribcage, grabbing the desk until his knuckles turned white while Bonnie dug her needles into his skin.

He then pulled open the nearest dresser, grabbing a plain white long-sleeved cotton t-shirt, and pulled it on, taking care to not disrupt the bandages, gauze, and technology precariously placed around his body. He taped a switchblade kept under his pillow to his left arm with some medical tape from the bedstand, and got a Kevlar vest along with some arm-guards, issued to small town police forces before the war and whoever looted the body of the vault security officers after it, from under his bed, fastening the protection over his shirt and buckling it for good measure. He put the bandoleers on, tucking a machete snugly between his armor buckles and the bandoleer, grabbed his trailblazer and ranger helmet from a coat rack, and walked into the spacious kitchen, ED-E resting on the dining table with a foam apple skewered on his laser gun, looking like a robotic roast pig. He took the water pouch out of the canvas slot on the back of his coat, unscrewed the cap, and raised it to the sink, filling it with precious water, and resting it into its place in his trailblazer, connecting the tube from his hydration pack to his helmet and putting both articles of clothing on.

Opening a cupboard, the courier took a large brown dufflebag from within it, and placed several cans and jars containing green substance into the outer pouches, before walking over to the dining table and half-rolling, half-tugging the deactivated robot into his bag. Owen walked back into his bedroom, dropped his dufflebag at the foot of his bed, and took a scoped Marlin 1894 carbine out from under the mattress. He looked at both sides of it, noticing a couple scratches and dings, before working the lever action several times. Satisfied there was no ammo in the tube, he took a deep breath, held it to his shoulder, aiming it a portrait on the opposite side of the room, and smoothly and quickly pulled the trigger and worked the action, repeating this process seven times. Satisfied his crosshair never wavered from the spot between House's eyes, he set it on the desk and loaded ten rounds of .44 WINMAG ammo into the feeding tube, before working the action and putting one more into the tube. He reached into his desk and pulled out a modified swing-out cylinder 1873 Cattleman, opening the lip of it and filling each space of its partner cartridge with practiced hands, letting the bullets fall out of his palm and perfectly slide in, then putting it into the holster by his belt buckle. Owen knew he could handle a six-shooter well into his dying day.

The battle-ready man sighed, wondering what else he would need to trek the long journey, and how much his back and knees would be regretting it if he took anything else. His eyes lingered between two boxes, one marked with a red cross and another with a green pineapple. He decided it was better to be prepared and sorry than dead and sorry, and took Thump-Thump and its food from the gunmetal cage, and a messenger's bag with a faded pin going through the pouch flap, the pin reading "Re: lat on 9:6". Owen strapped these, too, around his chest. He buckled up his trailblazer, and walked over to the elevator, pressing the down button. The sound of static started playing through the speaker, with the occasional bit of bland sounding music coming through.

"Bonnie, how much does the gear I'm carrying weigh?"

"The weight you are carrying is: One Hundred, And: Twenty. Seven. Pounds, and: Fourteen. Ounces."

 _Well, ED-E is at least twenty-eight pounds of that. Shit. That's still a lot. But I'll need all the water I can get. I hope those pencil-necks can at least carry their own food and water. Can they shoot? I hope they can shoot. Or at least know how to take cover._

The elevator dinged, its doors creaking open.

 _Wait, I'm forgetting something._

He took his straw cowboy hat and bandanna off the coat rack, and placed both on his helmet.

 _Perfect._

* * *

You never really noticed how bad the Vegas air was until you've been outside of it for a while. And yes, while Owen was wearing a mask, some pre-war genius figured out how to have a both a filter and another port to breathe through, to save on filters while still keeping the mask on to intimidate disobedient citizens. Normally, intimidation was only a plus in Owen's life. It kept the troublemakers out of his way or made them bow. Unfortunately, this mask also intimidated most cab drivers.

"Taxi! Taaaxi! Finally-oh for fuck's sake."

No, that one went by too. It stopped to pick up some greaser getting too friendly with a lady in a nice dress around his arm.

 _It'll be dawn by the time I get a cab._

As Owen was contemplating whether it would be a good idea or not to smoke a cigarette through his mask there finally appeared a golden chariot sent down from the heavens to take him to paradise. It braked harshly in front of him with the sound of squeaking tires, and had the number 4757 on the side, a checkerboard pattern on the edges, and others might have mistaken it for an old rusted beige Volkswagen, but to him it was divine. Owen opened up a door and set his bag down inside. The familiar smell of already-smoked tobacco that lived inside every taxi invaded his nostrils, and he set his mask to filter level one.

The clean-shaven cab driver, brown hair, neatly kept, spoke up, "So, where to, masked fella?"

"Take me to the East-side of Free-side."

"You sure? That's about 20 minutes from here to there. You got the cash for it?"

Owen reached into his jacket and pulled out a few stacks of bottlecaps, roped together with duct tape and twine, and put them in the dinged up wooden slide-out box labeled "CAB FEES GO HERE". The cabbie slid the box out to his end of the probably bulletproof glass wall between them, and unwrapped the duct-tape with his pocket knife, NCR issue. Come to look at him, his jacket was NCR, too, but it was worn. As the cabbie was counting caps, The Courier studied him. Anglo-saxon. Mole on the left side of his chin. Recently shaved. Plenty of hair, combed over neatly. He could've either been very muscular or very lithely built, the re-purposed flight jacket made it difficult to tell. The box slid back to his end, making the distinctive jingle-jangle that only bottlecaps could make.

"There's your change."

Owen slid it back to the cabbie. "No, keep it. I insist." The cabbie eyed him suspectly from the mirror, and pulled out into the road. The Courier decided to ask the cab driver something. "That jacket, it's NCRA issue, right? What regiment did you serve in?" He could see the eyes of the cabbie through the rearview mirror looking at him, but he couldn't read anything from his eyes. "Yeah. I used to be part of the supply corps. Handled the logistics of an army. Sounds good when you say it out loud, but all I did was look at a map and decide which road the caravans and trucks should travel through. Most of us got the wash after the Hoover armistice. Honorable discharge, they say. In theory that should mean I'm a decorated war hero. In reality all it really means is I don't get nickeled and dimed so much at booze and hooker stores." The cabbie sniffed. "Still pay out the nose for everything, though. Damn this city stinks." The driver looked at him through the rearview mirror, dull but focused green eyes sizing him up. "What about you? You one of those rangers I've heard so much about? Thought that most of you guys ditched the NCR a while back."

The Courier spoke up. "No, I don't trust the NCR so much anymore, but I'm actually thinking about running for city council, I have to meet with a few friends before I decide about whether I'm serious about doing it or not." The Courier went to pull back his sleeve to access his pip-boy, but realized that was a distinguishing feature about him, and let his arm drop naturally. "I've actually learned more by sitting in the back of a taxi than sitting around any group of politicians. What improvements would you like seen done to the city?" Owen wanted to know. The cabbie started looking angry. "Well, you know, you know this uh, this city, sometimes, I drive around it, and it just smells… It smells God-Fucking-Awful sometimes. I think if you run for city council, you should get it cleaned up a litle, wipe the trash off the streets. Because, honestly, sometimes I'll drive around the city at-" The cab screeched shortly as it halted and the cabbie hit the horn with the back of his fist for a good four seconds. "Fucker! The light was red, dipshit! Fucking chem-heads…" Owen felt the cab start to move again, and he watched the neon lights of every color come and go by out the window.

"You see what I mean? Anyways… What was I saying… Oh! Yeah, and sometimes I'll drive around the city at night, and I'll see hookers that aren't even sixteen yet. I'll see pimps and junkies and dealers and all kinds of degenerates out there. Sometimes they walk out into the middle of traffic, either too dumbed up or too drugged up to know better. Sometimes I have to resist the urge to run them over. Because I can do that, you know? They know in the back of their heads they shouldn't be walking in the middle of the street, and it's all I can do to not just push the petal down as hard as I can and let the blood run. To play chicken with them. You know what I mean?" The cabbie sniffed again. "So what I want to see, if you're running, you should just clean up all this trash. Make the city a bit cleaner. Because it smells and looks like wet dogshit and some nights it prevents me from sleeping." Owen pulled the payment box back and put in a box of cigarettes. "Here, you need these more than I do." The cabbie looked inside the payment box and gave a tired look to the masked man. "Thanks, but I don't smoke. If you got some liquor on the other hand…" Owen shook his head. "Sorry, for me it's the other way around. So, you gonna keep the cigarettes, or…" The man prepared for war waved his hands in a circle. The cab driver sighed. "Yeah, I guess I'll keep them. Could probably barter them for a bite to eat. Thanks." Owen nodded. "Don't mention it. Are we almost there?"

The cabbie smiled. "Yeah, we're almost there. Is all the extra stuff hush money? Because, y'know… I don't mind it, if it is, but I keep my clientele information private anyway. I've been in the business long enough to know it's best to not show your dirty laundry to everyone. I'm no rookie." The Courier grabbed his brown duffle bag. "You can choose to look at it like hush money, but it's not. Consider it a gift. I haven't had a conversation outside of work for a long time. For you, it's probably just another agonizing chat with another shady character. But I enjoyed it." The green eyes of the driver stared hard the green lenses of the mask. "…How old are you, son? You don't sound like what I imagined a ranger sounds like." The mask stared back. "Drop me off at Ralph's hardware store." The driver looked back at the road. "Aye-aye sir." "I thought you were part of the army?" "Hey, it's not about where you served. If nobody tells the stories of good men sailing the seas, our children won't ever believe that it happened. And then they'll never dream of making a navy again. You have to hold onto hope." The courier looked outside the window and saw a gang of skinny-looking kids in rags gathered around a makeshift firepit on the sidewalk, roasting a giant rat. "Yeah. I know what you mean. Sometimes I wonder if we'll ever have a home like that again. Where the children dream."

* * *

The Courier walked into a bar, wearing a gas mask and overcoat. The few people in the bar went silent. It was a cozy little place, posters of bikini-clad women and license plates completely covered the walls, probably to hide that the walls hadn't seen serious renovations in over 200 years. He moved on up to the counter, spotting a man "cleaning" an almost pristine whiskey glass with a very dirty rag, he was a bit shorter than he was, tubby, muscular-armed , and gray haired, with a bald head and a flowing beard. Owen was reminded of dwarfs he would read about in comics as a kid. The greybeard dwarf eyed him up suspectly, coughed, and accused in a hoarse Scottish accent, "I'll warn ye now, I don't _know_ anything about what goes on outside these four walls, and I don't care. Either buy a drink or get out." The Courier put both his arms on the table and leaned over the bar to speak to the barkeep, and whispered, in a low tone and voice, "Do you have a bathroom in here?" The dwarf looked up at him like he was tired, raised his fist and making a thumb towards the left, grunting a "'sin the back". Owen thanked him and went inside the mens bathroom. It probably stunk like the insides of a super mutant, but he couldn't smell a thing. Taking out the holo-tape given to him by Victor, he pressed a button on his pip-boy, and a slot audibly opened up. He inserted the holotape into the slot at the top of his pip-boy, and opened up a compartment that kept an extendable wire inside. He connected the wire from his pip-boy to the multi-tool at the side of his helmet, and pressed the play button on his wrist-mounted device. A methodical static pierced his ear, before being followed by what sounded like very fast Morse code. Then a digitized recording, oddly sounding like Yes-Man, started playing.

 _This message is only for those directly employed or related to this job. If you are not employed under Registration Number 8006, listening to this message is an act of corporate espionage, which can result to fines up to 300,000 caps and legal action. As an employee working directly under the Free Economic Zone of New Vegas, sharing details of your employment can result in corrective action up to, and including, imprisonment, indictment, or seizure of any assets or currency as recompense directly proportionate to the amount of damages such leaked information may cause. Failure to complete the job as you are contractually obliged may result in forfeiture of your advance and bonus, criminal charges, and/or pursuit by mercenary reclamation teams. The Free Economic Zone of New Vegas is not responsible for any injury or loss of life you experience as a result of said contract._

The Courier considered whether he could survive three shots in the head before the message switched to a different, serious voice. Still digitized, but recognizably human. House.

"Time is of the essence, so I'll keep this short. The facilities at Black Mesa need repairing, but the radar fence prevents any living thing above a certain size or any radio-controlled automaton from getting inside or outside the research facilities. Your mission is simple: Discreetly escort 3 engineers to the facility, de-activate the radar fence so they can get inside, and repair the radio dishes within them. Then, connect them with the Helios One radio network. Once they have repaired everything, re-activate the radar field and await further instructions. The three repair-men will be waiting for you outside the gates of freeside. Be aware that mission priorities and orders are liable to change at any moment, so keep your radio tuned into 165.3885 kilohertz. I cannot emphasize the secrecy of this mission enough. _Nobody_ must see or know about this. Burn this film as soon as possible after you've memorized every detail of your mission. The future of Vegas, and humanity, is at stake."

The film ended there.

Owen hit eject on his pip-boy and released the holotape from its cage, cracking the case open. Unreeling the tape out of it, he took out a zippo and burned the recording, holding it, watching the flame rise up the shiny black strip to meet his gloved hand. When there was only one square of film left, he let it drop. The ember burned entirely into smoke on its way to the ground. The Courier tuned his pip-boy to the radio station mentioned, and heard only static. He lowered the volume until he could hear his breathing over the transmission, just barely, and walked out of the bathroom back into the bar. In the corner, on a small and round metal table with a single flickering lightbulb over it, a group of three men were playing poker. California Hold'em, judging by the four cards laying on the table and the pot going to the doctor. They were using bottle caps as poker chips. There must've been somewhere around fifty caps on the table. One had on a greaser jacket with some khan-like patches sowed on and sunglasses, another looked like a normal caravaneer, and the last had on apparel similar to the followers of the apocalypse, a generic lab coat and some thick-rimmed eyeglasses. They were an odd bunch. Owen scooted up a chair to the table and dropped his duffle bag to the wooden floor. They all stopped playing.

"Hey folks, I just got off work. Would you give me a game or two? I'm good for the caps."

The trio eyed each other. Then the khan spoke, "Sure, ten caps to play and the pot's twenty-four right now." The Courier reached into his pocket and put 18 caps into the pot. The khan snapped his fingers at both the men and they gave the cards to him so he could shuffle. He switched the cards around and flicked the two piles from his hand to the table, making the sound rich men and poor men knew equally well in Vegas. He dealt the cards out two at a time from his right to his left.

"The blinds are only one and two caps. The turn order is clockwise from me." The courier peeked at his cards. A slightly creased, on the bottom right corner, ace of clubs and an eight of spades. Not too bad.

A "Check." came from the khan. The doctor also checked. As did the courier, and the caravaneer. These men knew what they were doing. The khan dealt the first two community cards. A six of diamonds and an eight of clubs. The khan checked, looking the tiniest bit angry. The doctor raised six caps, shooting a clinical glance at the caravaneer when he thought nobody was looking. The courier also raised six caps. "Hey, wait a minute, I only let you join because I thought you were going to take your mask off. Either take your mask off or get going." The courier was still for a moment, and took out his revolver, setting it on the table. "If you let me play with it on, then whoever beats me gets my revolver."

The caravaneer eyed him and his gun with amusement, the doctor cocked an eyebrow, slowly looking at everyone at the table, and the khan still looked a bit angry. Although it could have just been the way his face was. Not the worst poker face he's ever seen. Khan grumbled, and then managed a "Oh, alright. But you still have to pay caps." out of his throat. The caravaneer was grinning from ear to ear, but Owen didn't think it was from his hand. "I check," He said. The khan played the next community card. A queen of diamonds. "I fold." Came from the khan. "I raise." The doctor said, adding another five caps into the pot. "I check." The courier muffled out. "And I check." The caravaneer said. "You know," the doctor looked at Owen, "if you have anthropophobia, a fear of society and people, that is, there are ways of treatment for that." Owen titled his head to where the mask was facing the doctor. "You know, if you have ballistophobia, a fear of getting shot one day for being a pushy salesman, that is, there are ways of treatment for that." The doctor's eyelids raised as he pulled his cards closer to his face, suitably chastised. "Fair enough." The khan played out the last community card, an ace of spades. Owen grinned behind his mask, even going so far as to let out a small laugh, but soon he frowned. _Wait a minute…_

"All in." The doctor put the rest of his caps in the pot. Owen was forgetting something. He should be focused on the faces of his opponents. No, not even faces. Torsos. You could predict a man's next move by his body. His face will always lie. But all he could look at were the cards. They meant something, there was a message. What was the value of his hand? What were the other hands? Some deep, primal memory of Owen's was blocking him from making his next move, from even focusing on anything else. _A six of diamonds, an eight of clubs, an ace of clubs, a queen of diamonds, an ace of spades, and an eight of spades. What are some matching pairs? Six and a queen, both diamonds. Eight of Clubs and Ace of clubs. Both Clubs. Ace of spades and eight of spades. Both spades. Ace of Clubs and Ace of Spades. Both Aces. Eight of spades and Eight of clubs. Both Eights._

Oh. Oh, no.

"Hey buddy, you gonna go?" Owen shot his head up. "Hmm? Oh, yeah." The Courier laid his cards face-down. "I fold." The caravaneer looked puzzled. "After that laugh? You're folding? I would've thought you got nothing but aces." The courier spoke to him, "I felt like that was more of a short chuckle than a laugh." The merchant looked amused without smiling. "Remind me not to take you to any stand-up comedy." He remarked dryly. The caravaneer looked at his hand. "Ah hell, why not. Check." The khan spoke. "Alright, show the cards, everybody." The Khan flipped his hand, a six of hearts and a five of diamonds. Junk. The doctor had a pair of aces, one a diamond and one a heart. Three of a kind. Owen revealed his hand, a two pair. And the salesman had a king of spades and a 3 of clubs. "Alright, pot goes to the doc. Next rounds blinds are 3 caps." The extended both his hands to grab the pile of caps and his gun, but the courier's hand shot out for his revolver and started alternating where he pointed it at all three of the men on the table. "Do you have nothing better to do than sit around at a bar and jip people out of their cash? Nobody gets that many aces, queens, and kings in the first round. And the corners of them are all creased. Hands where I can see them." The khan calmly replied, "Now officer, this is just a friendly game of poker. You're off duty, and nobody made you play it. If you'd be so kind as to hand over your bet to the good doctor, we can all go home and pretend you didn't just stick us up for a game of cards." The khans hands were resting against each other on the table in a business-like fashion.

The caravan trader's hands were open wide, but also resting the table. And the doctor was drinking what looked like whiskey and cola. Signs this wasn't their first situation like this. Signs of trouble, of laxity or a compromise in his own police force. They were entirely too comfortable. "I don't think so. Put your hands where I can see them, high above your head." All three were eyeing him intensely, and the bartender was cowering behind the item of his profession. "Officer, I'm not so sure you want to do that. We know _quite_ a few guys in high places. Low places, too. The kind of people who don't sleep and know at all times what you're doing halfway around the world. Just hand over the gun and we forget this ever happened. For your safety." The courier growled and then he spotted the caravaneer's hand slinking towards the end of the table. He aimed his pistol square at his jaw, and as he did so he also saw the other two men and some greaser who was formerly playing pool in the corner of his eyes reach for their pants and underneath their jackets.

"Fighty time!" Bonnie spoke into his ear. He felt the strange electric buzz of vats jumping through his nerves as a mix of adrenalin and some other slightly addictive chemicals were injected into his veins. The caravaneer just managed to put his hand on his holster before a hollow point .44 bullet turned every part of his neck sans the spine into runny paste. Even as the body tilted over backwards in its chair, he was moving onto the khan. Owen pulled his pointer finger, and another bullet found its way into another man's throat, but the khan almost had his 10mm pistol aimed completely at him. When he moved onto the doctor he saw that he was extremely close, brandishing a combat knife, heading straight for his right armpit. The courier dropped his gun and crouched as fast as he could, grabbing both legs of the doctor, and letting his own legs kick him back, pulled as hard as he could. He heard several gunshots ring out, and felt rather than saw debris and license plates fall on him. The courier jumped from his laying position onto his knees and grabbed the doctor's right wrist with his left arm, and went almost as if to punch his face, but extended his fingers at the last moment, gouging the mans eyes. He used his right arm to grab his revolver, and silenced the doctors yells with a single bullet.

Then Owen flipped the round table they were all sitting at, peeking his head and right arm out with practiced synchronization, putting three bullets into the greaser's center of mass. He ducked behind the table and reloaded, peeking his head out once again. Five tables besides his own were also flipped, three of which had bloodsplatters on them, where the patrons had taken cover. There was also a large amount of blood pooling by his feet and over the pool table, turning it from dark green to red. He looked around, cautious, but when he saw nobody else was aiming a gun at him he decided it was safe. "Is everyone alright?" A variation of words ranging from yesses to swears to lamenting the loss of a radroach steak and friendly offers to eat it for them came before a much louder voice, the Scottish accent completely gone and replaced with a southern one, " **GET THE BLAZING** _ **FUCK**_ **OUT OF MY BAR!** ", along with several beer bottles narrowly missing his head, but only because he ducked back behind the table.

"Was that all?" Bonnie spoke through the helmet earphones.

Yeah, he deserved that.

* * *

After he gave his testimony to a pair of detectives and called a cleanup crew, Owen was on his way to the freeside gates. The sun was beginning to rise on the horizon, which meant that for a few minutes, the desert would neither be extremely hot, nor bone-chillingly cold. It also meant that this was the time of day when the geckos would crawl out of their holes. Owen liked to watch the sunrise. So did many other people. The geckos must have come to learn this over time, and they also loved this time of day, because not only did the geckos wake up then, they often could catch an unaware trader or wanderer off guard and get a filling meal, meaning they could go right back to sleep with a full stomach. Owen liked to watch the sunrise, but only in a past tense. He didn't like it as much anymore. He walked outside the freeside walls, passing maize-fields while searching for the three engineers and hoping they didn't become gecko food. Come to think of it, House didn't specify what they looked like. How was he supposed to identify these three engineers out of the thousands of people in Vegas? It's not like they would dress up in yellow hardhats, carry toolboxes, and have a bright orange vest that said 'Engineer' all over it, right?

He really hoped not, because he was looking at a trio of egg-headed idiots that fit that description exactly.

"What's your designation number?" Owen asked, fully confident these were just engineers assigned to the water pipeline. "Oh-Six." The one with a black handlebar moustache responded. _Molerat tits._ "I'm Eight-Oh. Follow me." Owen walked for a while until he was at the nearest building, a grey five-story apartment tower building. Some young man in a jumpsuit was smoking inside by the stairwell. "Hey buddy, do you know where the restrooms are at in here?" "Yeah, second door on the right, third floor." After thanking him, all of them walked up the stairs to the bathroom. The courier rapped on the door, and after waiting a moment with no response, went inside, motioning for the trio to follow. "Alright. Ditch the hard hats and orange vests in the bathroom. Put them in a bag or into those toolboxes. Leave no trace on your person you're engineers besides the toolboxes. After this we're going shopping for some essentials." They nodded, and the men went to go into a stall to change, but the courier interjected. "You're not changing in the stalls. You're changing where I can see you."

"What are you, a fuckin' queer? Why can't I change in the stall?" The blonde one bit back at him, an angry look on his face, and the others didn't look very happy about it either. "Because I've read all of your files and need to make sure they're still accurate and that you're all who you say you are. If any of you are unhappy about however many thousands of caps you'll be paid for only three weeks work, you're free to quit right now and play hide-and-go seek with hired guns for a few months." All of them looked at him incredulously, and with a bit of fear. Owen knew what these men were worried about. "You haven't been roped into becoming a male prostitute or some other degenerate job, don't worry. We just got a lot of travelling to do. It's best you get comfortable shitting and pissing in front of others as soon as possible. There's zero privacy in the desert and the only bathroom breaks you'll have will be communal. We're not going to stop just because one person has to use the john, this contract is too time sensitive. That answer your question?" None of them still looked entirely pleased, but the blonde one gave an unpleased "Yep. Diode-crystal." And they started undressing.

Sometimes, Owen hated his job.

* * *

The good news was, none of them had any faction tattoos. The bad news was that didn't mean a damn thing and he's going to have to hit the bottle much harder tonight to get those images out of his head.

Speaking of which, he was opening the door to Mick's Ammo Dump right now. The familiar smooth sandstone tiles greeted him, but now there was more decorations. There were these red carpets mats all over and now there were these lampshades hanging over the lit-up lightbulbs. Every place in Vegas above the poverty line now had power, which took a little getting used to for Owen. Vegas was a bit different to how it used to be. But Mick himself hardly changed at all.

Owen walked up to the counter, where a young blonde-haired boy that looked to be about seventeen was cleaning a disassembled m99 Avenger pistol, assorted brushes, screwdrivers, and bottles scattered on a rag with several black stains. "Is Ralph home?" Owen leaned an elbow on the desk. The kid set the barrel and brush down onto the rag, looking up at him with widened eyes before giving him a bored expression. "Do you have an appointment? Or a warrant? If not, you can get out." Owen didn't have time for this bullshit, but he had to be professional with civilians. "I don't have either, and of course you always have the right to discriminate your customers and all other enterprise-related matters, but I can guarantee that if you kick me out you will be fired. Pick up that phone, call Ralph, and tell him that an officer came in that said he needs to make a polite society. He'll know what it means."

The boy cocked an eyebrow, and dragged a phone out from behind the counter, the click-whirrrrrr of a rotary phone echoing in Owen's ears over the muted static of his radio and the breathing of his engineer. It reminded him of when he dragged the corpse of an NCR soldier back to safety through a fiend ambush. He reached for his 10mm pistol, the breathing and yelling all too audible as he whispered his location into the radio, using the pip-boy to read out coordinates as he swiveled his head and arm around. He was in the worst possible spot, in an alley between two short buildings. There was only one way out, the other path blocked by a fence. A barrier, but not one that would stop bullets. He thought there were only three or four fiends, so he had placed a mine further away but where he figured he could shoot at it within the alley. He was going to shoot at the mine to cause a distraction as he dragged the corpse through the alley the other way, but he missed one tiny detail. The fence. He tried to figure out an escape route but when he heard a gunshot and the corpse's arm blew off he had to stop planning and shoot the fiend at the top of the building. Dark crimson oozed down the walls as the fiend crumpled into the alley. Now he could definitely hear at least seven fiends close by yelling and trying to find him.

He had set the fiend on top of the NCR grunt and was currently crouching low behind the corpse pile. "Whiskey, tango, zulu, nine, five, three. Over. I repeat, whiskey, tango, zulu. Nine, five, three, over. How copy?" "Solid copy green fly, earliest ETA is thirty minutes." Shit. He needed a game plan. He grabbed into a crack in the mortar and used it to gain solid footing on the corpses, jumping up from there onto the ledge and pulling himself up. He yanked his binoculars from around his neck up to his face, scouting the surrounding buildings. He saw a few fiend poking their heads out over by a collapsed and crumbled apartment tower. Shifting to the right of that building, his left, he saw a pair of fiends sweeping the area with an ECW rifle and a submachine gun. And looking to the right- "Nye-heh! You like the sight of your own blood?!" A shout from very close by on his right echoed in his ears as he heard a roided out psychotic was hitting the wall with a pool cue. He sighed and dropped down, "I'll gut you like a-" **BLAMBLAMBLAM.** So much for the plan. He grabbed a bolt-action rifle from the raider he killed before, leaned against the wall, and aimed where he figured the mine was set down. As soon as he saw movement he let loose a shot, rewarded with an explosion and a woman screaming. He then went to the fence, where he started slicing the pie. Scoot, see a body, breathe, aim, exhale, shoot, work the bolt, aim, scoot. Plan be damned, he settled into a circadian rythym of systematic murder.

This zen was how he'd survived so far. He'd read about it in a book, once. The Japanese called it Budo, their art of war. To achieve perfect clarity in battle, they left themselves completely out of the battle. To them, a master of Budo was the ideal soldier. Supposedly unkillable. There were similar ideals in other places and times. Knights of old Europe called it divine clarity. Private military corporations often called it professionalism, but they knew it extended further than what that word offered. His own thoughts were adrift, right now he was a methodical animal, observing without thinking, and acting without moving. He handled his gun with instinct, not with hands. And as he reached the toppled apartment building and reloaded, his 10mm pistol dry from suppressing a raider with a plasma pistol, he felt something akin to peace. He was doing what came natural, what was right. He aimed and fired on the next raider inside the complex, sprinting toward some stairs and ending another piece of human refuse, he felt as if everything made sense. He was disposing of evil. He was doing good. He was the cosmic purifier for life. His peace, however, would be interrupted for a long time. Because as he cornered the last shaking and unarmed raider, who he could tell had urinated himself, and as Owen was about to give a one-liner, he saw a plasma grenade roll by his feet. Click-whiirrrrrrrrrr-

"A little med-x will make the pain go away." Bonnie brought him back to reality, again. He had several stares from everyone around him, customers, clerks, engineers, and Ralph himself. He realized he was leaning against the glass gun case. And although his chest wasn't literally on fire like in his memories, it burned like hell right now. Fuck, how long had he been out of it? "There, all better." He loved Bonnie so much. All of these guys were great. Ralph was great. He just met those greasy engineers, but they were awesome, too. No. None of that. Budo, remember Budo. A shot of pain like a supermutant grabbed his legs and whacked him upside a tree split through his head, he grit his teeth and winced, grateful for the mask keeping everyone from seeing it. All of them are horrible and he couldn't trust them with a bloatfly egg. It's the morphine that makes him think they're alright. But Bonnie really is a nice friend. She never judges him or stares at him when he ha lapses like those. "Hey friend, you alright?" Ralph was trying to start a conversation with him. Owen was trying to care even though it felt like his legs were on fire and he was going through a bad drug high. He didn't really care, but he responded anyways. "Sorry about that, it happens sometimes. I'm all better now." He brought himself up and dusted off his kneepads. Ralph looked concerned. "You know, I know about some really good doctors. If you want, I can set-" "No. No, Ralph, that won't be necessary. I already know what's wrong with me. Listen, I'm going exploring, and these three green gentlemen-" he waved at them "need the best kit possible. We'll be outside of civilization for a long while. Doesn't matter how much it costs. Understand?" Owen could practically see the bottlecaps light up in Ralph's eyes. "Oh, certainly. I'll hand-pick the gear myself. Right this way, fellas."

Ralph dragged them all into the back of the store to presumably go through some fitting for the clothes and gear. Owen sighed. He needed a cigarette, badly. That would have to wait until they got beyond the free economic zone. But his lungs felt like they had miniature fire-ants crawling and biting around in them. "If we keep going through Haloperidol like that, we only have enough of a supply for: Six. Days." Fuck. He needs that. Hopefully once he gets out of the constant war of the city and back into the familiar, less intense war called wasteland he won't need so much medication. It worried him. If his body is starting to develop a resistance to the medication, he's shit out of luck until he can find a better alternative medication, and who knows how long that will take without any medication to suppress the symptoms. Practically a death sentence. And the only other explanation is that his brain is finally… No. Best not to think about that. The blonde kid looked scared. Poor boy. The courier reached into a pocket and pulled out some bottlecaps, setting them on the counter.

"You forgot all of this. Anyone asks, you never saw any of this. Got it?" The blonde boy nodded. "Smart kid. Learn from this experience. You'll survive much easier in this city if you do. Get a less dangerous job lined up." The courier checked his pip boy. It'd probably be another hour before Ralph was done getting and fitting everything. Fuck it, one cigarette couldn't hurt. Owen took off his helmet and took out a pack of cigarettes, going outside with a straw hat on. He burned the faded yellow stick with an engraved silver lighter, and took a long drag. The more smoke he inhaled, the more the burning went away. It was temporary at best, and he knew it killed him evern faster than what his condition was already doing, but he didn't wholly care. He wanted to retire soon, the quicker the better. He hated long goodbyes. He exhaled all the smoke, and raised the cancer stick back to his mouth. He noticed his hand was trembling. He scowled and the hand grew still. He breathed deep, closed his eyes, and gave his habit another long hello.

* * *

The three engineers were standing in front of him, adorned in chocolate chip everything. From backpack to shoes to boonie hat. "Well, I've given them all the best gear I could find. They're set for just about anything now! There's a cold fusion cell filtration system, a portable auto-scanning two-way radio, infrared laser target modules, automatic-" Ralph droned on and on. He had to hand it to Ralph, he was a great businessman. He was completely selling these engineers, professional(he hoped) electronic specialists on why they _definitely_ just _needed_ a hard to repair proprietary cold fusion water filter, a colossal waste of power, potentially unworking flashlights, and a constantly-on radio. They even seemed to be buying into it, chatting among themselves excitedly on what they'd do if they had this back home. That, and Ralph is a very hard man to say "No" to. Owen knew better. He was trying to sell him expensive dead weight that just took up shelf space for months. "Ralph, I told you we'd be far away from any civilized placed. We're not going to war or making a new town, we just need to survive a long time without a reliable source of water." Ralph got a twinkle in his eye. "Ah, I have just the thing you need." Ralph went behind the counter, scrounging through what sounded like a box of polymer knick-knacks, before emerging with what looked similar to a deactivated plasma pistol, but even smaller, most likely modified to sneak into casinos. "The thermal energy dampener! I got this beauty from some travelling caravan. They said it was from Massachusetts, I think. It used to be a lot bigger, was a weapon before, if you'd believe it, but I got it modified to be as small as I could get the thing to be and get more utility out of it. It's got an adjustable power and temperature dial so you can make it flash-freeze food and water, make your backpack a portable freezer, or just be a very complicated AC unit. I don't think I need to tell you this, but don't point it at anyone. It freezes live meat just as well as dead."

Owen whistled. "That's impressive, Ralph. How much?" Ralph smiled. For you? Only 800 caps, if you give me feedback on the gun once you return. Owen was unamused. "Are you serious? Eight hundred caps for something you don't know even works? That's a rip-off." Ralph pretended like he didn't hear the question, just smiling over the cash register, face unmoving. Owen sighed. He needed to work on his bartering skills. "I'll take it." Ralph shot up, punching keys on the register. "Great! That'll be-" Owen interrupted him, "But! None of crap the eggheads have. Take that back and get them actually useful things. If the name is more than two words long I'm not buying it." Ralph stopped typing and immediately slumped over the desk, his head making a big *thump*. He mumbled out an unenthusiastic and tired "Yes, sir." Before slowly walking out from behind the counter and motioning the three to follow again. Owen smiled underneath his helmet, yelling out to him, "And don't call me 'Sir', I work for a living."

* * *

 **A.N. : I was originally intending not to put any author's notes into the story for immersion purposes, but a hiatus of 2 years warrants such a thing. I've been working over 50 hours a week trying to save up enough to afford my own place(besides the flat I share, which I pay rent on), and while I'm not much closer than I was two years ago due to a couple months of poor life choices, I'm now back, better, and I believe I'll be able to start working on the story again during my free time before and after work. I apologize to all the people who were biting their thumbs at me wanting to read this story. I am truly sorry. I hope to make that up to you by updating much more frequently now!**

 **Anyways, though I haven't said anything about it before, feedback is always appreciated and welcomed, no matter how harsh. I read and take into consideration every review and PM. It's a poor thing to be, a writer that doesn't want to improve.**


	4. A Short Forecast

Once the engineers all had normal, baggy cotton clothes on, each taking the guise of merchants, and had a backpack full of the essentials for traveling, they left Freeside and started making their way out of the Free Economic Zone into a nearby maize farm. They would have little support from here on out, Owen knew. The robots could only operate so far from Vegas, and his men were either in the neon city or spread out gathering intelligence and supplies. Luckily, Owen knew the Nevada area like the back of his hand. He didn't even need a pip-boy to navigate through the Mojave. Yet, there was one particular robot that could and did operate all across the country, and Owen had it in the bag.

He unzipped his brown duffle bag and took the heavy sputnik-esque robot from out of it, lifting with his legs. He took out two wires from a compartment in his pip-boy, one black, the other red, and hooked them up to a compartment inside the machine. He flipped a switch on his pip-boy, and it started humming. Then he flipped a switch on the robot, and it started humming for a few seconds before making the mechanical noise of a computer starting up. He waited for a few seconds until the eyebot started levitating, then turned off, removed, the wires on his pip-boy from the robot, satisfied the dial-up noise ended. His pip-boy, riot helmet, ED-E, all were linked. His helmet upload display started flashing a wealth of information onscreen, cardinal directions, ED-E's machine diagnostics, nearest bio-signatures, and an option to view through ED-E's lenses. He tapped a button on his pip-boy to decline that last part. The eyebot turned around and shook left to right in mid-air.

 ****Excited Beeping** **

"Yeah, Eddy, nice to see you too."

**Curious Beeping**

"Can't tell you, not right now. It's a secret. You'll know it when it happens."

 _#Hi, Eddy. So nice to see you again. We're going to visit Dr. Klein and Dr. Borous. Wanna come with?#_ Bonnie spoke to the robot by UHF waves, and only Owen could hear her in his helmet. ED-E gave some more beeps in reply.

"Are you _talking_ to an eyebot? You do know it's not understanding a word you're saying, right?"

The blonde boy looked incredulously at him, the man with the moustache scowled at the blonde boy, and the one wearing glasses was just looking timid. Owen sneered under his helmet. _Profliga-_ he bit down on that train of thought before he could finish.

"What, you never speak to your machines? Can you really call yourself an engineer?"

Mitch gave a little scowl. "Course I do. _If it takes orders._ It can't understand what you're saying. It's just giving stock beeps. You can't even understand what it's saying. Let's just move on and quite wasting daylight. I'm not getting paid by the hour, here."

Mitch started walking ahead, getting a bit of a bad temper. The other engineers looked a little disturbed at his behavior.

"Dumb-ass luck getting dumb-ass me trapped with dumb-ass mercenaries talking to dumb-ass eyebots in the middle of the dumb-ass desert on some dumb-ass quest to haul a dumb-ass-"

As he was talking and walking, he heard a **ZZAP** and saw a laser go right above his head, feeling the heat on his scalp, before it immediately dissipated. He hit the ground immediately, getting out a high-pitched shriek, as his hat fell over into the dirt. The other engineers stood stock still with their mouthes open, browning and yellowing teeth for all the world to see. ED-E did a little midair dance from side to side, giving some happy beeps.

"Ah, Eddy, great aim! But, if you wouldn't mind, next time could you wait to calibrate your gun on something hostile instead of my friends here? You almost got his head." The Courier started walking over on to Mitch, picking up his hat by the holes in it, and beat the hat against his outer thigh, shaking some dirt off.

**Angry Beeping**

"Yeah, yeah, I know he called you a dumbass. Doesn't give you the right to shoot at him." Owen extended his hand to Mitch, who looked to be in a bit of shock. Mitch took it. "Up and at'em, partner." He pulled on Mitch's hand, who stumbled a bit from the force that brought him standing, nearly hitting the dirt again. Owen patted his hand on Mitch's back, shaking some excess dirt and sand off from the impact. "Little word of advice, Mitch. Don't try and piss off the laser-shooting robot." He put the hat in Mitch's arms. The rest of them started walking, glad to be done with Mitch's yakking, while Mitch just stared ahead. "But- but eyebots don't- robots don't-" He looked down at his hat, putting a finger through the holes, before focusing back on the robot. "...How did it understand me?"

* * *

"So Mr. Bede- uh, bedar-" Mitch, the blonde haired boy stuttered. "Bedauern." Owen corrected. "Right, that. What _is_ our mission, exactly? What's with the dress-up, the walking, the guns, the killer robots? Because the way I see it, we're dressed to kill, and killing was _not_ in my contract. I'm not down with that." Mitch, the one with the blonde hair, was adjusting his stormchaser hat, while the other older men were resting their hands on the holster straps of their 9mm submachine guns. They were barely five miles outside the vegas walls, still in the midst of cropfields, though these ones were growing potatoes, and Owen was already getting complaints again. To make matters worse, he had a pacificist on his hands. A pacificist who decided that the best place to hang his hat at was the epicenter of the biggest war in America only three years ago. 'God preserve us both.' Owen felt unease from the other two, unspoken questions, but only Mitch seemed to be brave enough, or more likely, stupid enough, to ask them. Owen took a look at some of the hard-working farmers in blue overalls and straw hats that were a couple hundred feet away. Any one of them could've been spies.

Owen knew these men were only looking out for themselves. Couldn't blame them for wanting to know more. He thought House would've at least informed them of the risk they were taking. Must be big, if House thought the only ones that could be trusted were him, himself, and House.

"You mean they didn't tell you? Typical Vegas Bureaucratic Brahmin..." Owen trailed off. "Well, first, we have to go over to a nice little trading post. Get us a bit of cargo. Then, that's when the hard part comes in. It's going to be a long trip. You'll need those guns for coyotes, dogs, nightstalkers if we're unlucky. Me and the robot will handle the rest Mother Mojave has to throw at us."

Owen looked over his shoulder at his reluctant companions-for-hire tailing him. Mitch seemed satisfied, so he his eyes back on the road. They walked for another few hours, until they were well and away from Vegas and it's many prying eyes and ears.

"Y'know I'm pretty sure we passed the Crimson Caravan a while ago." Mitch was tossing his hat into the air and spinning it, catching it. Anything to kill time, Owen supposed. Hope he didn't keep doing that later, he'd either be too exhausted to walk or the sun would give him a heatstroke.

"We're not going there. We're gong to the 188. Going to get a brahmin, carry some tools to repair Old World tech, and and some more water."

" _MORE_ water? We each got a backpack full of the stuff. How long's this trip?"

Owen didn't even look back. "Already told you. Three weeks."

Mitch groaned. "Why? Why can't some other company in California just take care of those radios?"

"Because we're not going to California." Mitch flipped the hat over again. "Not going to- then where are we going?" Owen and the rest just kept walking. "Hey! I'm asking a question, here! Where are we going?!" The man with a grey beard answered. "Quit your bitching already, boy, or I'll shoot you myself. I'd be more than happy to take your share." He looked at the other engineer with the handlebar moustache. "How does fifty-fifty sound?" The man with the handlebar moustache looked amused, giving a little smile and a kind little twinkle in his eye. "Sounds alright by me."

"Knock it off, you two. You're all a team. I'm the one that shoots any deserters. That's my job. It'll be _my_ share." Mitch's face made him look like he was about to piss his pants. "You're all psychopaths! Every one of you!" The three of them, all except Mitch, laughed. "I just need my pound of flesh, Mitch. You must be new to Vegas. Poor, Dumb, Naive young man." The one with a grey beard, Henry, chortled at his own 'joke'. Owen eyed Mitch through his helmet lenses. He thought Mitch was just talkative, but now… Well, he'd wait and see. Hope he learns better.

* * *

Once they got to the 188, Owen gave them each a few caps to get something to eat, and told them he'd meet them under the Bridge in 30 minutes. The Courier… no, Owen, needed advice. He was playing a dangerous game, escorting House's men to his home base, to fix tech he (mostly) left alone, to do things unknown. Owen needed advice. He didn't want to have wasted three years of life for nothing. He wondered if this whole walk was a warning, a bluff, or if House was completely unaware, just eagerly trying to get a better hand. The Courier just didn't know, and that just wouldn't do. Owen had an ace hid up his sleeve, a card he could always count on. Below a bridge, below notice. Below everyone. And he helped build up more than he knew.

It was an eleven year old boy.

The Forecaster.

"Hey Fore-man, how's it been?"

The young boy was nose-deep in a book, titled "The Mysterious Stranger", by Mark Twain. Slowly, he lowered the book, and when he did, his eyes shone, full of admiration. He felt a little guilty about that.

"Owen!" He dropped the book and went up to hug him, wrapping his arms around his coat.

"Christ, kid, keep it down. Here, I brought some food." He dropped the duffle bag gently onto the decayed asphalt. Foreman didn't let go, unfortunately. He raised his head to look at his masked face, eyes still bright and shiny. "You got any more stories for me! I'm almost done reading all the books from last month." Owen ruffled the little guy's hair. "Yeah, yeah, missed you too. Shithead… Now get off of me, you're cramping my style." The adolescent psyker obliged him. Owen started picking some of the jars of green goop out of the bag's outer pockets. "Ugh, green slime again? I know it turns into other stuff, but it always tastes off. Like it's… tingly." Owen set the jars in the shade of a nearby baby carriage. "Yeah, well it's calorie-dense and it's good for you. Trust me, the ladies will love you for it when you're older." Once he was done putting them away, Owen dusted off his hands and put the now much lighter dufflebag across his back. "I'd love to stay and chat, but I'm a little short on time. I need to hear your thoughts again." The boy's eyes got a little sadder, but the smile grew a bit. "Awww. Well, anything for you, I suppose." "I really don't know why you still talk about me like I'm some kind of hero. I've never done a thing in my life that wasn't to benefit yours truly." The Forecaster got a happy little gleam in his eye again. "Oh, I know. You don't pretend to be some do-no-wrong paladin or act like a Grognak The Barbarian villain. You're _real._ "

"Again, I really don't-"

"It's not what you _have_ done, it's what you _will_ have done." That shut Owen up. Maybe it was just playing on his ego, but who was he to argue with the soothsayer?

"You came for a vision, right? Truth is, I haven't had a clear vision for a couple weeks now. Mind's been drifting between Vegas and… somewhere else. Not sure where. But, now that you're here, there's something I can focus on. Something I know." Forecaster took a deep breath, eyes looking towards the ground. "It usually hurts a lot whenever I go a few weeks without a clear vision. Could you… make sure the other two kids here don't do anything to me while I sleep afterwards? I don't want Cindy to think less of me…" The Courier grinned underneath his helmet. "Well isn't that something. You starting to get _feelings_ for that crazy NCR gal?" The Forecaster blanched. "Christ, no. Ew. She takes me hunting sometimes to get away from all the people here. It's quiet, in the desert. It's one of the only times I can really hear myself think, and I _don't_ want to be reminded of all the mean pranks Esda and Beth play on me. They're not even clever, it's just… embarrassing. They either lay a bunch of bugs on me while I'm sleeping or pretend they're Brotherhood of Steel jerks shooting muties. Guess who they always make the mutie. I swear, they really, really can't think up any other way to spend their time." Owen laughed. "Alright, you got my promise. Now come on, I got about fifteen minutes left before I gotta go." The Forecaster gave a warm smile, putting his hands up to his head-brace he wore. "Thanks. Here goes nothing..." He removed the brace.

"A new hand is dealt. The deck is shuffled. Neon lights, shining brightly in the dark, but the shadows they cast hide a secret worse than the dark. Much to gain, but what does it cost? Old hands will come back to haunt those who gamble. Brother killing brother, causing families to bond. Maybe the bonds will let them hold on. A darkness will blot out the sun, but who it'll belong to is anyone's guess. The shadows find new children in the broken earth. The remainder of a bet made in secret long ago has paid off, but was it in vain? It'll take bringing every last card to the grave to know. Maybe on that grave, there will be a new beginning to things? Something takes up the shape of… Hope?

Forecast: Red. God, so much red. No. **NO!"**

Owen was startled, reaching for him, "Hey, are you alri-" However, The Forecaster reached for him first. He grabbed the collar of Owen's duster, and pulled him down almost to his face level with strength no eleven-year old possesses.

" **Take. The plane. To VEGAS.** "

His eyes were wild, and in this moment, Owen saw not a boy, but an old man. A man who lived his life in fear. A wild-eyed messenger, a courier, his eyes telling of something awful beyond imagining.

"What plane are you talking abo-"

" **Dont** _ **FUCK**_ **with me, courier! You know which one! Fast, fast one! Take it! Take it and go back! Back to NELLIS!** **Take…** the…" The Forecaster went limp, falling asleep. Owen caught him before he hit his head on the asphault, and put his skull brace back on. He put the jars of green goop back into his bag, and scooped up the poor psychic kid into his arms, to deliver him to Cindy. To safety.

Because that's what a good Deliverer is supposed to do.

* * *

If there was ever any doubt in Owen's mind that psychic powers existed, it was gone now. He never told anyone about the plane in Big MT, nor did he ever fly it, at least not outside of Nellis' simulation pods. Truth be told, he went to The Forecaster mostly to get a different perspective on things before taking an action. The kid had a knack for seeing things from another person's point of view. He didn't go to him today for… _that._ Owen was a little worried for the kid, but also amused. What's the worst that could happen? The world ending _twice?_ Psssh. As if.

Although he stopped Ulysses from doing precisely that before.

…And Caesar.

...And The Think Tank.

...And Himself.

But still, he chewed and chewed on Forecaster's thoughts with his own brain. Mick was talking, but he already tuned him out. Owen just wanted to know if House knew about all his tools he had stashed in the Big MT, he wasn't expecting a fucking doomsday prophecy.

...Ah. He probably should've told him to focus on his money. Damnit.

" _Mooooooooo."_ The pack-brahmin agreed.

Sometimes, Owen hated his job.

* * *

 **Under 3k words in two weeks? Unfortunately, yes. Still better ratio than the last two years, wouldn't you agree? Now, onto review responses.**

 **CheesusChrist15 (8-29-17): Do I smell richard cheese? Nice username. Thank you, the crossover aspect really is coming, I swear. Give it just another chapter or two. Introductions are for introducing, after all.**

 **PaxAmericana(8-30-17): Noted. Although, it's not like immersion is going to be easy once Owen's over in nightmareland fighting bears made of breathing darkness and battle-wizards, sorry, 'hunters' are leaping 20 feet into the air and running up walls. There is a bit of suspension of disbelief required, but I get what you mean. It'd be annoying if Owen was talking to himself in the middle of a battle wondering what perks he should pick or pulling a rocket launcher out of his a- out of his PIP-boy(Not throwing shade, there are some good fics where this happens, but with my writing style it wouldn't work out). Less video-gamey, more post-apocalyptic-y.**

 **Guest(8-30-17): Hate to say this seeing as you waited two years for this answer, but You'll Know It When It Happens.**

 **MoralityIsASpook: Already replied to you before in PM but shout-out to this guy for being a cool dude and a good writer. Check out his stories and follow them if you like, he updates regularly.**

 **Guest(9-8-17): watch?v=bgs9OhjAE2g**

 **Guest(7-14-19): Thank you! What exactly is it about how I write characters that you like?**

 **AscendedHumanity(7-15-19) Noted. It does look different in my text editor than on FF. Luckily there's tools on the site for that. I'll be fixing them shortly after this chapter is uploaded.**

 **VLF(7-16-19) He was an inspiration for the first chapter, though I didn't remember his name. The first chapter, as you can probably tell, was more of an experiment than anything. I've since had some differing ideas about how I want to take the direction of the plot, but rest assured, the NVPD absolutely will play a central role in things to come, mostly because of who they work for. I don't do empty words.**

 **Author's Note: I've watched some of the more recent seasons of RWBY after Season 2. It, eh. Yeah. I'm going to be replacing some of the plot.**


	5. Bull Market

**Author's Note: This will be the last author's note. I have opened up a discussion forum under the Anime RWBY, and only that, as does not allow crossover Forums. To find it, just go to that search bar in , type in NVPD, and select Forum instead of stories. I will be answering any questions made in reviews, talking to anybody that wants to talk to me, and occasionally posting sneak peaks of the next chapters I write. Please still leave reviews, I have a desperate need to improve, but this way works out best, I think. No more immersion-breaking Author's Notes, and I can explain why I do the things I do(like delete the first two dross chapters of this story) in there without falsely boosting up the word count with non-story bullshit. I bid you adieu.**

* * *

After spending the night in peaceful, busy Novac, they spent the rest of the day traveling to their next destination. A tumbleweed blew through the path in front of them, down a long hill down showing a thriving trader town, dozens and dozens of brahmin being led this way and that, hundreds of people and many, many tents. In the orange and purple glow of the setting sun filtering through the clouds, it was the very image of beauty and peace.

"Welcome to Beautiful Cottonwood Cove, gentlemen. Look at the Legion girls, but don't touch. They belong to the Legion, and the Legion are very sensitive about people touching their stuff. Regardless of which side of Lake Mohave it happens to… uh, happen."

Juan, the man with glasses and a handlebar moustache, spoke up. "What Legion girls? All the slaves are loading cargo from the ferry. Are you talking about the merchants?"

They began to slowly walk down the twisted path, the spooked water brahmin slowing their progress.

"Yes, the merchants, Juan. Every member of the legion is a slave. Remember that, but don't speak it. Their only joy in life is crucifying people that point that out. Oh, and don't light smokes from here on out. They'll take a finger for that." Owen said a bit after they passed an open tent bearing a legion flag, the inside sheltering a couple tables of smoking, drinking, and chess-playing Frumentarii. Ah, the joys of seniority. Good to see Vegas' influence still going strong, too. Maybe when those cosplaying tribals figure out how to jam TV and radio signals in any meaningful capacity they'll stop dreaming of Vegas lights. Until then, to anyone with a working radio, Vegas culture _was_ Post-War Culture, though the NCR tried awfully hard to get a word in, too.

Self-sacrifice and taxes just didn't sell as well as a handful of bottlecaps for a no-strings night with a Bleach-Blonde. Who would've figured. The Courier found a nice clear spot next to where slaves were unloading boxes of cargo, and spoke up.

"Now stay frosty and stay alert for pick-pockets, we're boarding that next ferry. You fellows wait out here. I gotta buy us a passport. Anyone try messing with you, you take it up with the Triarii in the feather hats." Owen started walking around the camp, passing tents labeled 'Vegetables', 'Blades', 'Books', and other creative names, all bearing a bull painted in red on the door. After the dam, the market activity East of the Colorado river started feeling the new Caesar's armored hand around it's throat. Surely, slaves could fulfill most of the civilian jobs, with the Legion taking its rightful place as the masters of such chaff? Apparently, while the lesson on logistics he painstakingly and metaphorically beat into his skull had stuck with Lanius, no one back East was so bold to tell the jolly gold giant about supply and demand. Though it did have it's own very narrow set of perks. For one, you couldn't bribe a slave.

'Well, it's his loss, really. If it wasn't for those kind of decisions I wouldn't be here right now.'

He walked into a trailer that was labeled 'Slave Affairs', marked with a big red 'X' on each outside wall, and looked around. Filing cabinets and papers neatly stacked everywhere, a few rusting bunk beds without any mattresses, and, at the front desk, sitting at a terminal, a female slave, bomb collar, rags, and all. She looked like she was a child.

"Hello, can I help you." The bald-headed girl tonelessly whispered to him from just above the screen.

"I don't recall asking you for anything. Don't speak unless spoken to, _Raggedy Ann."_

She started tearing up, hiding her head behind the computer. Owen felt his heart bleed for the girl.

' _The things I do to stay in cover. God, man, would it kill to at least pretend to be a decent person once in a while?'_

Then Owen reminded himself of the time he spent in Flagstaff after the war.

' _Yes. Yes, it would.'_

"But! Maybe there is something you can help with, milksop. I'm looking for the Legio who manages the slave cargo transports. Tell me where he is, or your owner will know you failed your duty today. _And we wouldn't want that, now would we?"_

The tan-skinned girl lifted her head up from behind the computer, eyes full of unshed tears, and softly shook her head from side to side.

"Good girl. Now where is he?"

He could see fear in the girl's eyes. Normally, intimidation was only a plus in Owen's life. At least, that's what he told himself. Right now, he just wanted to give her a hug and tell her it'd all be alright. But that'd be a lie. Even if the plan he'd been working on succeeded, she'd still be a slave. He could try taking her to safety, running, maybe they'd even get out of the canyon valley by some stroke of luck. But then he'd never be able to save another soul across that Dammed River again.

' _That's the wasteland, Owen. You have to keep on, and you can't save them all. You're just one man.'_

"H-h-he's-* _hic_ *His name is a-a-awn-*hic* _Honorable Vexillarius Consul Caius Drusus,_ *hic* H-h-he s-should be in the head building, b-by the docks."

So he was still here. His luck was still running strong, for now. He opened the door and went back outside without a word, trying not to hear the beginning of a sob.

* * *

The Courier walked up to a "chain-link" fence made entirely out of spottily rusted barbed wire and metal poles erected around the building, to a small slide-in gate, constructed out of the same. He was flanked by two guards. Legion recruits, or Hastati, as it were.

"Halt, Profligate. You seek a presence with Great Caesar's Vegas consul, you do so elsewhere. This building is Martian soil, upon which a Legion embassy stands. Only those who have given Mars offerings in blood or those of the Legion may pass."

'Fucking greeters and their fucking voice messaging.' Thought Owen.

The Courier unbuttoned his duster jacket, hands on each side of it, displaying his grenade launcher and pointed machete lying in between the bandoliers bearing dozens of bullets and his bulletproof vest.

"To question me is unbecoming of you, Hastatis. Tell me, which tribe did you come from? The Chicken Mouthes? Where I fed the remains of all the men who survived the seven day and seven night assault into the pit of fang and venom, to curl up and perish? Or perhaps the Blood Gulches? Where I drove the tribes into madness, pain, and death with a cunning fire raid every blessed night? Or were you perhaps from a later time, a time after the first assault on the profligates' dam? One who does not have such honor is worthy of little more than being a pool of blood to cleanse my boot-heels upon."

The Courier buttoned his duster back up, sending a message of exactly how much he didn't feel the need for anything he just showed to them to beat them into dirt.

"I am Frumentarii Superior Cruentis Anguis. Make you a path, or I will make a path _out of you."_

He could read the body language of the armored men. At the beginning, they were ready to fight, but as he went on and on, it grew to skepticism, then doubt, then a sheer and barely hidden terror as they bought the 'lie' hook, line, and sinker. Once they were convinced, the effect was immediate. They dropped to one knee, right hand clenched over their bronze-armored left breast.

"O-Our forgiveness, Frumentarii! Your word is more than worthy warning! Our posts are forfeit for you!"

' _And they call Vegas the city of cowards. If I started making a speech like that in Westside I'd have a bag over my head and a bat to my kneecap before I could say 'Howdy Neighbor.''_

"Rise, Hastati. We all serve the legion. Serve your post, or serve as an example to those who abandon their posts." He was already walking past them as they rose to their feet, as if struck by lightning, giving a cocky saunter and holding his head oh-so-high & snooty, completing the image of a Legion elite. He sung under his breath as he opened the door,

' _Oh-oh, yes, I'm the great pretender...'_

* * *

He was only in an empty carpeted room right now, colorful purple and red rugs covering every square inch of the floor and making intricate patterns, with desks, full bookcases, and filing cabinets aligning different walls. Of course, the walls were adorned with battle-rugs, where the women of the legion painstakingly embroidered the pain-filled subjugation of the many tribes that composed Caesar's legion. There were only about three tribes on display throughout the wall, but the atrocities inflicted took up every square inch.

"Drusus! Dru-sus! Honorable Drusus! Where do you hide? The Vegas degenerates bear new fruits, ripe for the bleeding of the bear." Owen shouted for all the people in the building to hear.

Owen heard a muffled shouting and many feet and objects shuffling, before an eyepatched man came out of the door, followed and flanked by a small legion of toga-clad men, many of them carrying scrolls, maps, and other assorted documents.

"Who in Tartarus is making such a ruckus? I swear I'll take the skull of whoever's interrupting me and use it as a ink bot-"

The Consul's single eye looked at the masked figure, blinked, and then looked at him again. Owen saw him mouth the words "Oh, Mars." before turning back to the toga-clad statesmen. "Well gentlemen, it's been a very, erm, _fruitfu_ _l_ discussion, but if you don't mind I must attend to my frumentarii first. We shall ajourn this meeting until two hours from now."

The men erupted into shameless and fruitless protest as only Legion statesmen could.

"-critically low amount of projected skilled horticult-"

"-tories too large, we must increase production of men and foundri-"

"-go chokus on a bag of biggus dickus you over-paid pig-swi-"

Caius Drusus had had enough.

"NEEDLESS I REMIND YOU, Caesar's will takes place before ALL OTHER wills, under oath of slavery and death. Please, be the good men I know you are. Don't make me enforce that oath." Silence reigned.

"This meeting is ajourned. See you in two hours."

They all exited the building, slowly, grumbling, and single file, looking like a row of balding swans.

Once they finally left, Drusus spoke up. "So. The House's long shadow casts his shade upon my land again. You had better carry a good reason for interrupting my governing, Courier. Or you'll find that Caesar's Oath applies to every soul, including those of profligates." Impassive green lenses started back at the man. Maybe it was time to remind him who wore the (literal, to his constant agony) pants around here.

He walked closer to the Consul, who, to his credit, did not flinch or change expression. He did spot a bead of sweat going down the left of his brow that was starting to be joined by a few more. Still, considering he knew _exactly_ who he was talking to, he held his composure admirably. A true spartan.

He let the silence live for a moment, the idle sounds of a fan filling the air. Then, he spoke.

"I'm making my trek back. The day is coming soon, Drusus. The day we've been preparing for. The end of the needless fear and bloodshed. I need a merchants passport and the usual rites. Today."

Drusus seemed to be looking far away into nothing, staring right past him. "...You're serious, aren't you?" Nothing but the mask and the fan answered. A quiet "I… I need a drink." passed through the room like a soft desert breeze, easy to hear and fast to fade. He went over to his office station and sat down, reaching into the desk cabinet, where any self-respecting officer keeps his liquor. He pulled out a bottle of wine and shotglasses. He popped the cork off. He poured then downed one glass. Then two. And then a third.

"Give me..." A stronger, louder tone. Emboldened by liquid fool's courage.

"Give me a date. I can't just pack up and go. I have men I lead. I need to know specifics, for their safety. One week, two weeks..."

Owen cut him off. "A date, I can't give. All I know is soon. But I can give you a place. The Great Salt Lake. The 80s will move there soon, migrating in force. Caesar will be raising the stakes for glory and blood, his first successful defense of any size, seeking to prove stratagems and plans effective. Then, when the battle reaches it's fevered betting stage, hounds, from hungering Denver, will escape an 'unknown' vault and make the battlefield a maelstrom of blood. The spearhead will be devastated, while the 80's crush the Legion ranks like a snake's throat. In such an… Unfortunate series of events, losing even such a mighty man like Caesar and his successors is just one regretful footnote among many. Leaving Caesar's title an open hand to be read and claimed by our winning man."

Although Owen was happy with it, Drusus, on the other hand, even though he had so much more to gain, was seemingly much less enthused. His eyes looked at the shotglass, the iris' taking on the same texture as what he beheld.

"...Ah… Mars… I wish Caesar, the real one, never died. What a man. There'll never be another leader like him, before, or after. Mars never spoke as clearly as he did through him." He slammed back another shot, making a loud noise as it returned to the desk. "But the living world is for the living. Caesar wouldn't want us lusting and lamenting after dead ghosts, even his own. This, in a way, is our way of keeping his lessons alive, though the man is dead." He eyed the green lenses. The windows showed only a fallen hypocrite wearing legion colors. Dissolving important legion functions, consorting with the enemy, drinking while speaking of Caesar's teachings, and hopelessly lost in sin, treason, and regret. Plotting treachery with a profligate. What did the Legion even mean to him anymore? Was it truly that he could do no better for his men, or was that the excuse he told himself? Was it the legion that was growing weak, or himself?

'This must be why he wears the mask.' Drusus ponders. 'It shows as much as it hides.'

"...Hey. Courier. Do you mind if I ask you a question?" He stared hard at where his face should be.

He breathed deeply in, working up the courage to do something he'd never do while not under the influence.

"Why do you wear that mask?"

A stupid question on the surface. To keep his face concealed. To protect himself. He's a wanted man. But The Courier knew what was really being asked.

The fan spun around, and around, and around.

Whump-whump-whump-whump

No big reason, surely. It wasn't complicated.

Whump-whump-whump-whump

He did know, right? Surely he remembered.

 _Whump-whump-whump-whump_

Back… back home. The pistol. Before the grave. The bodies he buried, they- they weren't- No, Couldn't-… Had to be mercy, had to be-

 _ **whump-whump-whump-whump**_

He took the easy way out, as he always did. He almost remembered, again. He chose not to.

"Would you believe me if I told you I forgot?"

The Consul belted out a long, hearthy laugh.

"I like you, Courier. But I don't believe you for a second. How could everyone remember, but the man who did it himself forgets? I don't believe you."

Owen smiled, underneath his helmet.

"Yeah, same here."

 _You have to remember to forget._

Owen ignored that. There was nothing to remember, and that was that. The feeling of something eating at his gut returned, refusing to be ignored, but Owen was practiced at forgetting it. He forgot it almost every night. He wouldn't function if he didn't.

"Anyways, just make sure the right slave gives me my passport. I'll be there to assist the true Caesar in a month's time, around the same time the eighties should arrive. It'll be over as quick as it can be. That's a New Vegas Promise."

"Excellent. I wouldn't expect anything less of the Monster of The Mojave. Er, if it's not too much to ask, try not to let them suffer too much, yes? Misled though they may be, they are my brothers. They deserve a worthy passing into Elysium, like any other legionaire. There'll be some good caps in it for you if it's fast and clean. It'd soothe my traitor heart."

Owen nodded. "I'll try my best."

Drusus smiled a grim smile that didn't reach his eyes. "That's more than I could have hoped to ask. Kill well."

Drusus turned on the radio as Owen walked out.

 _I seem to be_

 _What I'm not, you see_

 _I'm wearing my heart like a crown_

 _Just pretending that you're still around_

* * *

Eventually a wooden plank, wide as two men lying down, was lowered from the boat, winches lowering the bridge by two slaves turning handled wheels. The thing looked more norse than roman, but then, the legion has never been known for paying close attention to history. I was tailing our jacketed 'Protector', with the other two engineers and decaying pink mutant cow in tow. This whole job screamed to me that something was wrong, that I should've left a while ago, mercenaries be damned. But, honestly, the thing that scared me more than the grizzled Legios all around me, the dead-eyed slaves, and even the thought of travelling Lanius' desert for three weeks, was the man in the brown coat. Something about him was...different. Not different in a "You're Special!" kind of way all the professional ass-kissers in Las Vegas make you feel when you have money. Different in a fundamental way. Something was… missing. I felt like this man was waiting for an excuse to tear me apart, limb from limb, even if he'd been nothing but cordial with me so far.

"So what happened? Why didn't you run?"

You know why. I was just a kid. Sure, I'd sold some info here and there to the NCR. It was my home, I was broke, someone kept spending my money on gambling and whores, it was an easy decision. Just listen and repeat. The NVPD, they seemed like a myth to me at the time. Ridiculous rumors to scare any would-be skirt-flippers that didn't have the caps. I was wrong. Very, very wrong. Wasn't the first time, won't be the last.

"What happened on that boat?"

The boat? The boat ride was fine. Boring, even. It was what happened when we got _off_ the boat, that was the scary part. Never get off the boat. Not unless you're ready to go all the way. To see how deep Vegas' trails of bodies and lies go. And I just wasn't.

* * *

Lake Havasu city. A great place to visit, but you wouldn't want to stay. One of the few places in the wasteland where people actually decided to use blood and sweat, brick and mortar, to make houses, instead of simply clearing out the skeletons from some decaying pre-war building and calling it a the center of town, there was a decently sized dirt theater, metal seats and raised stone brick platforms giving a view of the greatest show in town. There was a man in an old torn duster and a cast metal mask that looked like a simplified ranger helmet. It didn't even have lenses, or the gas mask, just holes.

"I am the messenger, and I am the message! Honor is dead! The Legion will not live to see civilization and peace return to the west! War! War is the answer! This legion is a legion of the dead, with the Dam serving as it's tombstone! No-body can dare challenge me! Muh-ha-ha-ha-ha!"

Owen blanches inside his mask. He didn't sound anything like that.

"Not while I draw breath, you degenerate profligate filth."

Some haughty-taughty heroic-sounding voice that sounded _nothing like_ Lanius came from outside the theater area as a man dressed in a Hastati's bronze-colored armor and a horned masked helmet came barreling through a line in the seats. The pretend-ranger recoiled like some sort of comic book mutant that drank blood, holding his coat-flaps so they covered half his face and his body.

He gasped. "Legatus Lanius! New and Forever Caesar! Hero of the East! Bringer of all things civil and good! You _dare_ show your heroic face on the bridge of my dam! Begone, noble one, lest I cover you in pitch and cast you alight into the dam!"

'Whoa-hoah. Wait, what? Really? Is this really happening?' Owen looked around and saw quite a few Hastati in the audience, who were cheering and laughing. 'Christ, Vulpes. I thought subtlety was your thing.'

"I think not, damned messenger. Though you have fought well, your reign of tyranny ends today. I will show you blood, guts, and Mars' unending anger. For the slaying of Caesar, mightiest, wisest, and kindest of us all, I will take your skull, and cast it beside my chair so you may look upon my works, ye they be mighty, and despair. Caesar said to never kill a Courier. For you, this day, I make an exception."

The Pretend-courier cast off his cloak, revealing a silver suit of armor, the shoulder pads somewhat resembling that of brotherhood power armor. A sword was drawn from his side.

"The war ends for you this day, Caesar. You shall die in agony like all rulers are fated to. But enough talk, have at you!"

The two began to dramatically fight, for minutes and minutes. Owen lead his charges out of the stadium, having heard enough of the completely inaccurate and poorly acted rendition of one of the bloodiest days of his life to satisfy his curiousity.

"Come, come with me. We have earth to walk and ground to cover."

Mitch, Juan, and Henry's eyes were all torn reluctantly from the scene being played out in front of them. They started following their only source of safety to the distant pillared building he made his way towards. He saw a look of curiousity in their eyes. Curiousity was bad. It always lead to a path he had to end.

"You're not missing anything. That's not how it went down, anyway."

* * *

"Did you know at the time who he was?"

Of course not. I had suspicions, sure. But, you think, a guy like that, what are the odds of you ever running into him? Surely he had more important things to do then escort some electronic repair guys. A guy like that, he'd have people to do that kind of stuff. He's too busy for small things like that, right?

"Stay focused on the question. Did you know who he was? What lead you to suspect his identity?"

Well, he made a lot of pit-stops to just barge into random places. Farms, old factories, legion tents. Especially legion tents. I don't know for certain what they discussed in there. It was just… scary. I honestly thought we had been roped into slavery for the legion, with how much he was talking with them. The contact was vague, but I knew for certain there was more involved than what the contract was letting on. You don't go around roping engineers to play dress-up if everything's completely cut-and-dry.

"Do you know what he was talking about in the legion tents?"

I just told you, didn't I? I don't know. I got no clue. I got a guess, seeing as Arizona set itself on fire a few months later, but I didn't hear a word. Was too busy recovering from the burns and shrapnel as it was.

"I see. Disappointing, but let's move on. Did you see anything unusual on your journey there?"

Unusual? Well… There was a robot that understood english.

"I fail to see how that is unusual, Mr. Burston. Could you elaborate?"

It shot me after I called it stupid. That ranger guy, he talked to it, too. They seemed like they… understood each other. Like they were having a conversation.

"Are you feeling well, Mr. Burston? Do you need a break from the questions, or some water? Recollecting memories like this can be stressful, I understand."

No, I'm feeling perfectly fine. Just a little burning. It was an eye-bot. I couldn't understand a damn thing, just some beeps and morse code that translated into gibberish. But the ranger seemed to be able to understand it.

"I understand you're a certified signal and information technician. You couldn't understand it?"

I'm getting real tired of answering questions twice. It translated to gibberish. Just stock eyebot beeps. Kept saying "Empty Quiver, Broken Arrow, Dulled Sword." Things like that, over and over again. Doesn't mean anything.

"Hmm. Interesting. Write those down."

I saw the blonde secretary write the words down.

"Did you ever see his face during this time?"

Regrettably, no. Only on the wanted posters.

* * *

The journey they had taken was a simple, if hard, one for the men to take. The distance from Vegas to Big Mountain was Three Hundred and Seventy-Five miles. The average walking speed for the healthy adult male is between three to four miles an hour. If you walk 12 hours a day, assuming a straight, unobstructed path, you can reach it in ten to eleven days. Owen had actually walked this distance before, even with the transportalponder in his pack. It just wouldn't do to have it bust out on him and then not know where to go to get his stuff. Hundreds of miniature mountains and steep valleys called Arizona home. The territory was a giant fortress, hidey-hole, and maze all rolled into one. There was a reason the NCR never put their boot up Caesar's hornet nest. Would've made the brotherhood war look like daisy picking. The Legion and their land was strong. But the land's strength didn't work for only one master.

And so, here Owen was again. In Camp Verde. Fifty miles South from Flagstaff, the most bloodthirsty and war-hungry city in the new world, bar none. He watched Decanums of Hastati carrying large military backpacks bursting with rocks on their backs, full armor on their legs, chests, and arms, shields raised on one hand, and gladius' in the other, jogging, being lead by Vexillarus', singing cadences for all legion subjects to hear.

 _Let 'em blow let 'em blow_

 _ **Let 'em blow let 'em blow**_

 _Let the four winds blow_

 _ **Let the four winds blow**_

He saw one of many identical bounty posters on a town board, where calls for murder, executions, and public torture of dissidents coexisted on the same sheet of paper as scheduled theater classes and community cook-outs. One piece of paper in particular stood out to him, labeled:

 **WANTED:**

 **DEAD OR ALIVE**

' **THE COURIER'**

 **FOR UNSPEAKABLE CRIMES AGAINST CAESAR'S LEGION AND HUMANITY**

 **REWARD 10,000 AUREUS**

 **ANY INFORMATION LEADING TO CAPTURE OR KILL WILL BE REWARDED GREATLY**

 **REPORT TO YOUR NEAREST CENTURION ANYTHING FOUND**

 **INACTION IS TREASON**

 **THE PENALTY FOR TREASON IS DEATH**

 _Let 'em blow from east to west_

 _ **Let 'em blow from east to west**_

 _Caesar's Legion is the best_

 _ **Caesar's Legion is the best**_

On the poster, there was a man with two round and cragged scars on his forehead, scraggly wav hair, a five o'clock shadow, and a pleasant, somehow cold looking smile with a cigarette in his mouth, eyes looking like they just found his next meal. Got to give the legion some credit where credit was due. It was his own face, or supposed to be, and even though it was drawn well the picture somehow pissed him off.

 _Standing tall and looking good_

 _ **Standing tall and looking good**_

 _Ought to march in Ollywood_

 _ **Ought to march in Ollywood**_

He took one of the posters and put it in his coat. The less of these people saw, the better.

"Hey, hey, why are you picking up that poster? You're not really thinking about going after him, are you? Isn't he like, I dunno, your tribe's leader? Supposed to be some kind of ultimate badass or something?" Mitch was talking stupid again.

 _Hold your head and hold it high_

 _ **Hold your head and hold it high**_

 _Inculta Battalion is marching by_

 _ **Inculta Battalion is marching by**_

Owen sighed. "Yeah, I've met the guy a couple times before. He's just a guy, Mitch. Pissed off a lot of people and lived to tell about it, but just a guy. Who knows. For the right price, I might make him disappear. God knows I've thought about doing it before to that bastard for free."

 _Close your eyes and hang your head_

 _ **Close your eyes and hang your head**_

 _We are marching by the dead_

 _ **We are marching by the dead**_

Mitch was quiet, pondering, a bit disgusted at him. "Why would you do that? After all the good he's done for you guys? For Vegas? I mean, I've heard the stories. Everyone has. But people tell stories about everyone. They're just boogeyman stories for grown-ups. 'Behave, or I'll kill you dead' kind of thing. I know the real guy's probably just trying to do right in the world. There wouldn't be so many people that got his back if he didn't."

 _Look to your right and what do ya see?_

 _ **Look to your right and what do ya see?**_

 _A whole bunch of white legs working for me_

 _ **A whole bunch of white legs working for me**_

Owen stared at the jogging soldiers. All he had to do was remove his mask, and he'd get the bounty. He'd have all the dead money he could never spend. "Are you sure, Mitch? Have you ever met him? Because I have. I don't think they are just stories."

 _Dress it right and cover down_

 _ **Dress it right and cover down**_

 _Forty inches all around_

 _ **Forty inches all around**_

Mitch looked downcast.

"Well, ah, no. Not really. But still! Rangers are cool! They give hope to the entire wasteland! They- _MMPH_! _Auuuaaa-gra-ha-ha..._ " Owen had put a hand over Mitch's mouth and punched him in the gut. Mitch had slinked down to the ground, grabbing his stomach and writhing around on the gravel. Owen crouched down. "Say shit like that in legion lands again and I find a secluded pit of sand to bury you in. Comprende?" Mitch rolled over. "Eeeee...eeee… ssss..." Owen stood up and offered Mitch a hand. "Geez mister, are you alright? Here, let's go get you to a doctor. Gee whiz, hope you don't have a cramp. Those things hurt." He made Mitch lean on him, as he dragged him back to where they kept the brahmin. They'd sleep here, and none would be the wiser. Owen lived through a very meticulous and very complicated code that he followed. Never stay in one place for more than eight hours, and never take the same route coming and going. It's kept him alive for three years, and hopefully it'd last him for another while before somebody caught on. Owen whispered to his charge,

"Listen, spy. You made your contract in Vegas. Everything about your contract stays in Vegas. Beyond Vegas, you don't exist if I don't want you to. Now shut up, follow orders, and listen when I speak."

' _Cause back in the SPQR_

 _You don't know how lucky you are, boys_

 _ **'Cause back in the SPQR**_

 _ **You don't know how lucky you are, boys**_

* * *

"I'll be frank with you. You're talking with dramatics more than you are with testimony. You lead me early on to believe something terrible happened. And, looking at you, something obviously did. But you haven't told me what that something is."

I'm getting to that part. Maybe if you didn't interrupt me for questions every two minutes you'd know what happened by now.

"Alright, then. No more questions. Tell me exactly what happened. What's Vegas', quote, big secret, unquote? You know, if you're not just taking me for a ride right now."

Well, it started when we were about forty miles away from the big antenna. It took us an entire week to make those forty miles. It was a warzone, my first, my murder-cherry, and I was a dumb-ass kid. Worst week of my life.


	6. Mosquito Moaning

The sun beat down on the ancient asphalt trail. They were walking in the lowest road in a sunken valley, dried brush plants overgrowing the top of the dirt sides that flanked them for the last ten miles. This road was forbidden to venture into by legion decree, and with good reason. Because, even though the road itself was in a sunken valley, there were a dozen ideal mini-mountains, flat-topped mesas, at any time visible from far-away overlooking the steep twenty-foot slides of dirt. This would be, and used to be, the safest natural territory in America for any well-supplied military force to occupy, as the many abandoned legion searchtowers and tents adorning the reddish-white mesas could attest to. You could hold the roads with absolutely no problems against any land-based force. But there was just one tiny, minor detail that made it into 'Here be Dragons' territory for the legion.

Cazadors didn't walk. They flew.

ED-E started a series of beeps. A red indicator appeared on his helmet display from the North-East on his compass. Owen held up a fist, and the armed merchants stopped.

"Quiet. Something's ahead." He scanned the long road ahead, but couldn't find anything. The red dot disappeared. He waited and waited, but nothing happened.

"...I don't know, friend. Are you sure it's not the heat-wave playing fiddle with the robot's sensors? I've seen some crazy things in those mirages coming off the road myself that weren't there." Juan broke the silence.

Owen's gut felt funny. He'd only felt this feeling a couple times before, and when he did, it was never good.

"No. I feel something. Stay silent."

He crouched down, and put his helmeted left ear to the cracked and paved ground. It took a few seconds, but he heard a sound. A dull but fast _thudda-thudda-thudda-thudda_ , like some slowly accelerating engine.

God, what was that _sound?_

"I don't know what that sound is. Stay here, I'm moving to higher ground."

He heard Juan and Henry whisper something about 'Stir-crazy desert rangers' and 'Going to go sell drugs to the legion again', but he barely registered it. He climbed the steep dirt cliff, punching gloved hands into dirt and sand to kick and climb himself up the twenty-foot dirt slide in about five seconds, ED-E merely hovering a few feet up with him. He made sure to walk along the edge where he could still see the hapless engineers sitting down on a large rock, giving their legs what little rest they could find and drinking from a straw out of their camelbaks.

The masked face scanned the now-slightly expanded horizon, but whatever ED-E's biosensor's detected, they were gone. Although, there were many valleys and villas for someone to hide behind around here...

" _+Maybe the bad guys have stealth suits, too?+"_ Bonnie quipped. They were far enough away that the egghead trio couldn't hear them.

"Don't be ridiculous, Bonnie. They could hide well enough around here even without a pro like you to help them out. Remember those guys that used to try and ambush us twice a day? We're in the middle of their turf."

" _+I remember them! So many fun games of hide and seek. Good thing we never lost!+"_

"Bonnie..." Owen sternly reprimanded her.

" _+Well, mostly we never lost. We're still the 'best twins in hide and seek' award winners three years running, though!+"_

Owen let himself give a small laugh. "Yeah, I guess we are, huh?"

Then, ED-E beeped again. Many, many beeps.

"+ _Fighty-ti_ … _Oh.+"_

"Oh? What's 'Oh'?"

In the far, far distance, about two kilometers, Owen saw a dark cloud moving from the top of a mesa. He un-shouldered his trail carbine from the straps on his back and looked through the scope at it. As it turned out, 'Oh' was a a completely mesa-covering swarm of black-and-red carapaced cazadors flying what appeared to be slowly towards him, but he knew it was closer to twenty or thirty miles an hour. Panic set in, but Owen stomped down on it. He had around thirty grenades. He could do this, _if_ he did it absolutely perfectly.

"ED-E, start taking care of them." ED-E played an old west jingle from some forgotten movie and then started blasting the far-off dozens of cazadors.

Owen ran back to the steep dirt cliff and yelled down at his crew,

" **Get the** _ **fuck**_ **up here! We got cazadors coming,** **Two** **O** **'Clock** **!"**

They yelled back _**"But what about the cow?!"**_

" _ **FUCK the cow, get your asses up here, now!"**_

The trio, to their credit, were fast to try and get up the hill. 'Try' being the key word. Twenty feet of steep dirt is hard to surmount even to experienced survivalists. It might've been just one small part of Desert Ranger training, but to most people in the wasteland that was something that'd take a solid minute. Unacceptable, seeing as they only had three before they'd all perish. Owen took his ranger duster off and grabbed both ends, spinning it around and around like a towel. He tied one end into a knot, and held it down for the others to grab.

"We got two and a half minutes before we're all dead, so if you would kindly _hurry the hell up_ we might have a fighting chance."

That motivated them, and even a man as old as Henry got a move on. Once they were all up, the cazadors were much closer than they did the last time he looked at them. Owen shuffled around in his explosives bag, suddenly not minding how much his back hurt anymore. He'd fished out some small duct-tape covered black bricks and grenades, handing them out to each of them. "Stick the bricks to the left of the rock face. If we're lucky, it'll cause a rock slide. If we're not, it'll take some of the cazadors with them."

Henry protested, "If that rock cliff explodes, it'll take us with it! Are you nuts?!" The others seemed apprehensive as well.

"I've done this before but if you'd rather convince _them-"_ he pointed at the swarm of giant vicious insects flying through he air closing the distance a kilometer away "-that my plan is bad, then be my guest." Owen looked into each of their eyes, and saw apprehensiveness. He'd seen that kind of look before. It was universal. Whenever a rookie soldier meets his first taste of real combat, with a real chance of dying if they fucked up, or even if they were just unlucky, they gave him this look. Trying to communicate their regret and fear with one look in the eyes, as if he could just convince the enemy to walk away and let them live another day. Owen wished he lived in a world like that. But war demands that someone dies. You, or your enemy.

"We don't have all fucking day, ladies. **Get on it.** "

They started setting the C-4 a fair two dozen feet away, around the edge of the mesa face to their left. The effective range of Thump-Thump was somewhere around 600 meters, a range the cazadors were quickly about to enter. The distant ' _Thudda-thudda-thudda'_ had now become an awful buzzing screech, each cazador's four wings and the dozens of the hell-insects themselves making a sound that sounded like metal angrily and constantly shredding itself into pieces. Which the cazadors could easily do. An unholy drone echoed through the valleys, making the swarm of angry insects even more intimidating. ED-E was doing all he could to drop them, and while he had seen a few drop out of the air on their way to murder him, it was much too little. With one hand on his unstrapped grenade launcher, and the other reaching into his explosives bag, he remembered something.

 _I only packed three rounds of airburst._

His mind raced into overdrive formulating a plan. There were probably four dozen or so, five dozen in the worst case, of cazadors. Mojave Cazadors were about five by six feet long and wide, but Colorado Cazadors were seven by eight feet. The muzzle velocity of Thump-thump was around two hundred and forty meters a second, the airburst rounds having a clean-kill radius of fifteen feet and a wounding(for humans, anyway) radius of around forty feet. If he aimed where the cazadors would be in just under three seconds, he'd be good. Could drop at least a dozen and a half that way with the airbursts, then he'd have time for six more grenades before they'd be right on top of him and it'd be far too dangerous… Ah, but the dirt? The dirt might end up being their greatest weapon.

Two seconds had passed, and he had his plan. He loaded and raised the grenade rifle to his eyes, calculating the speed and trajectory of both his yet-unshot airburst grenades and the winged death that was speeding its way towards him.

" **Get those gun safeties off, gentlemen. When I say 'Fire', you fire.** **Empty the mags, a** **im for the wings. When you run out of ammo,** **prime** **the grenades,** **throw them** **in front of you, and slide back down the dirt hill.** **Then** **start running back the way we came. Understood?"**

A nervous but firm "Understood." came from all of them. Owen smiled a hidden smile. Untrained, but resolute. He'd make rangers out of these men, yet.

"Get behind me."

As they did so, submachine guns with their selector switch set to full auto and the wire stocks pulled out and at the ready, Owen got the belt of grenades out from his bag, and tightened them around himself.

" _+Bad guys in range._ _Wind speed is:_ _T_ _en._ _M_ _iles._ _W_ _est._ _ETA is:_ _T_ _hirty._ _F_ _ive._ _S_ _econds._ _Have fun!_ _+"_

 **THUMP**

By the time the grenade landed in the midst of the flying insect-demons, Owen already had a new grenade in the launcher and fired. The shot landed, and six of those black and red cazadors fell screaming and burning to the earth. Dust and dirt was shaken into the air all around him from the grenade's muzzle blast.

 **THUMP**

He did it again, the last airburst round he had soaring through the air and dropping more of them. Still far, far too much of them. Far away, but closing the distance faster than usain bolt.

 **THUMP**

Now, he had to use something different. Airburst rounds were gone. Hive rounds were ineffective at this range, and against giant cazadors in general. Plasma's blast radius was too small. That left one option.

 **THUMP**

He didn't pause to see if it would hit them. If he broke his rhythm, it would be wasting precious time, and he'd have to re-calculate everything with his head instead of letting muscle memory and experience take over. That'd take precious seconds.

 **THUMP**

"+ _Three hundred meters._ _Twenty_ _seconds.+"_

Many of the larger-than-man sized ebony cazadors were on fire. About half of them. Despite that, only a few were dropping out of the sky, at a much more leisurely pace than before.

 **THUMP**

Now, instead of half of them, most of them were on fire. That didn't stop them from making their way towards their prey, if anything it sped them up. It'd be a solid thirty seconds to a minute and a half before any of them died from burns, but it'd make the cazadors frenzied in the meantime. Angrier, but less tactical. Less Perceptive.

 **THUMP**

He'd need that if he was to survive up close with them, but it would also make them pissed _and on fire._ Owen was fine with that trade-off. It was a gamble he'd made before, with the prize being him still standing. With any luck, the heat of the fire would damage the venom. He flicked the lever to the right with his thumb, gravity pulling the tube down even as the smoke from it went up, and his left thumb and finger pulled the _ouch-hot_ can out, discarding it into the dirt to his left with the other cans. Then, he got a new can out, pushed it into the smoking hole, and closed the tube back up, flicking the switch to the left with his thumb. He raised it back to his shoulder, aimed, exhaled, and fired.

 **THUMP**

It was a process that took about three seconds. The time between the grenade firing and it exploding became less and less each time. Now, he could see about twenty-four giant black cazadors, their legs, wings, and eyes a bright red, and an hourglass symbol in the same color on their thoraxes. They were close enough now to make it blatantly obvious how even one of them could tear all of them apart. Un-naturally large, un-naturally fast, and putting the fear of the unholy into all of them. They were sixty feet away. Enough time for one more grenade.

" _+Ten seconds till melee.+"_

"We're dead meat! Fuck this!"

Owen heard rapid footsteps behind him. Juan was running away. He wanted to tell him cazadors flew faster than any man could run. That the hive would split up if they split up. That he'd be a dead man if he did it. But as it was, he only had nine seconds. Not enough time to warn anybody. Only time for one word.

 **THUMP**

A glowing green ball of plasma engulfed a fair bit of the cazadors, leaving…

Nineteen of them flying. And still on fire. And five of them were going after Juan, who was already down the dirt cliff and running back to the trail, the cazadors following him _through their escape route._

' _ **Fuck.'**_

" **FIIIIIIREEEEE!"** Owen shouted at the top of his lungs.

" _Five."_ Bonnies sultry and out-of-place tone whispered in his hears, before the even but rapid staccato of two M-3 submachine guns rang out, the two engineers Ollivewood-movie type shooting, waving the gun in the air, back and forth, actually proving to be the best course of action in this situation. With three of them, there'd be ninety bullets to hose the cazadors with, hopefully taking out all of their wings. As it was, there was only two of them, with nineteen cazadors. They downed about five of them with their guns, wings unable to take flight but still crawling towards them as man-sized monsters on fire. Owen unholstered his revolver and put three of the flying, burning, pissed off monsters down for good. That left eleven still flying, and five of the determined monsters with exoskeletons _melting off_ crawling fast and menacinglyjust twenty feet away from them.

" **FRAG AND RUN! FRAG AND RUN!"**

' _What I wouldn't give for a securitron or a ranger right now.'_

Mitch and Henry fumbled with the grenades as they ran back to the dirt slide. They took the pins out, tossing them behind them just before they went down the dirt, which happened to be in front of Owen. As Owen was following them at full speed. A very eloquent poem went through his head as he skidded his leg into the dirt and started running to his left.

' _Fucking rooks I meant at the cazadors not at the slide fuck didn't think this through God this is how I die shitshitshitshit'_

He hurled himself over a rock cliff, the cliff incline not being 'Steep' so much as not there at all. He dropped for a good two, three seconds and then heard something snap feeling a pain shoot up his arm, followed shortly by a feeling of numb euphoria.

' _+Some Med-X will make the pain go away.+'_

Not wasting a second, he put his left arm, ignoring the weird feeling, into the explosives bag. He found a duct-taped handle, and knew exactly what it did. He pressed his pointer finger down, and a loud **BTOOOOM** echoed throughout the valley, as a shower of rocks and flaming cazador parts flew over the cliffs and into his sight. He pushed himself up with his good arm, and reloaded the revolver single-handedly, flipping the gun into the air to eject spent casing, and coming up back to meet the gun with a wheel of fresh bullets into the chambers. He snapped the wheel shut with his thumb, and looked to the right, gun pointing that way. Juan was still being chased by a few cazadors, but Henry, Juan, and Mitch were all working together with their SMGs to kill them. They seemed to be doing an alright job. Owen fired a few bullets into the giant bug-eyed heads from around sixty feet, downing three of them in half as many seconds from a long distance. Henry and Mitch took care of the last two, filling their soft underbodies full of lead. Then, Owen heard a chirping sound. A ' _Skreeee-Skri_ _iii_ _tch_ '. A giant cazador, one wing blown completely off, the other trapped beneath a big rock, was stuck. It was hissing and trying to get at him. Owen regarded it for a few seconds. Then, he walked closer to it.

"You're stuck, aren't you?" It only gave a more agitated _'Skreee-Skriiitch',_ annoyed another animal was entering its territory, getting up close and personal. Owen crouched down, face to face with it. It tried lunging at him, biting him, but Owen was just a few inches too far away, its one good wing being trapped underneath a rock.

"God, you're an ugly motherfucker."

Owen stood up, and shot it in the thorax. It gave out an even more agitated ' _Skreee-Scriiiiitch!'_ of pain.

"Tell you what, I got an idea. You've really pissed on my day. So I'm going to piss on yours." Owen unbuttoned his strichtarn trousers, and took his… equipment… out of it's confinement. He put his right foot on the back of the bugs head and started urinating on the cazador's bullet wound, enjoying the ' _Skreee-Skriiitch! Skreee-Skriiitch!'_ noises of pain the hell-bug made.

"Does it burn, huh? _Does it fucking burn, huh?_ Piece of shit, I hope it does. You fuckers had this coming for a long time. Think you can gang up and sting _me?_ Kill _me?_ _I_ do the stinging around here. I do the stinging _everywhere._ The west and east belong to _me._ You fucking hear me? It's _mine._ I'll kill every last one of you shit-beetles with a goddamn _shovel_ if I have to. Flying piss-ant freak-of-nature motherfuck-"

At that moment in time, while Owen was busy 'marking' his kill, he neglected to notice his charges were walking back towards him.

"Hey Mr. Bedaurn, we got the cazadors all cleaned u-… Oh my God." Mitch stopped talking.

"Muchos Gracias for saving my _cajones,_ Mitch. Would've been dead if not for… Dios Mio."

"You guys are being dramatic, the man's injuries aren't that ba-… Well holy shit. He's real."

Owen was still relieving his bladder on the cazador, spitting out obscenities, when he noticed a certain kind of silence that was not there before. He turned his head to the right to and found himself looking at three seemingly shaky, relieved, and terrified at once engineers. "Guys, please, there's a million places you can look at. Besides my junk. If you fought as many of these shit-beetles as I have, you'd understand. I'll be done in like ten seconds. Please, seriously, stop looking. I have performance anxiety." But as he looked at them, he realized they weren't looking at his pants… area…

They were looking at him in fear. At his helmet, specifically.

"Wait, did I..."

He looked back at the rocks on the side of the cliff face. Over there, was his bandanna and straw cattleman's hat. The ones that covered up the… unique, putting it nicely, words written on the front of his desert ranger headgear. Owen started to sweat inside his helmet.

 _And it was such a nice job while it lasted._

"Listen… please don't tell my boss I copied his helmet. He'd through a hissy fit if he found out."

"Y-you're..." Mitch started, the pitch of his voice a bit higher than normal.

"A real idiot, blah blah, get shot for impersonating an officer, blah blah, like I said, please don't say anything."

"You're the…!" Juan joined in,

"Are you even listening to me? Let me spell it out for you: I'm. Not. The- _"_

"You're _The Goodsprings Courier!_ " A mixture of terror and boyish wonder in mixed measures was present in both their voices and eyes.

Owen leaned his head back, sighed and buttoned up his pants with his one good arm. Then he took the pointed machete out from beneath his bandolier and stabbed the cazador once in the internal spine, making the bug silent and its legs slowly retracting inwards.

 _There goes my sleep for the rest of this trip._


End file.
